


amaryllis

by hattalove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bows & Arrows, Family, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, The End, Werewolf Harry, Werewolf Liam, Werewolf Louis, Werewolf Zayn, Werewolves, after half a year i felt compelled to add a tag saying that this isn't a/b/o, and the like, it's more teen wolf-y lol, machetes, that's pretty much it um, the Swifts are a clan of hunters because i'm pathetic, the boys don't know what they're doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:59:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 146,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hattalove/pseuds/hattalove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Where are we?"</i><br/><i>"Um. A little while out of London?" Niall tries, seemingly the only one willing to not be mysterious and provide Harry with information, and. Oh. </i><br/><i>"</i>London<i> London? As in, the capital of England London?" he asks, just in case he'd misheard. </i><br/><i>"No, the other London," Louis laughs, low and biting. He comes closer finally, the moonlight just enough to reveal a sharp-cut jaw and pale skin. "Sorry, Pup."</i><br/><i>Nobody's ever called Harry a "pup". Frankly, he finds it quite insulting, but he lets it slide to try and comprehend his current crisis. </i></p><p>or the one where harry gets bitten by a werewolf. louis is the mysterious not-quite alpha, liam and zayn have Things going on, niall is their token human, and together, they watch <i>a lot</i> of TV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> once upon a time, it was november 2013 and i began this ridiculously long journey. it all started with [this](http://hattalove.tumblr.com/post/97300966577/au-where-harry-is-a-werewolf) gif of harry. thank you tumblr, i guess. please excuse the astronomical inaccuracy and my very crude take on hyde park; also some of the werewolf lore, as i've lifted most of it from teen wolf. oops.
> 
> title and general inspiration from [amaryllis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HWGRicE_Lxg) by shinedown. i also made a [playlist](http://hattalove.tumblr.com/post/97309136806/amaryllis-the-mix-listen-a-mix-to-accompany) to go with this, if you'd like. enjoy ♥

_We have not touched the stars,  
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back  
to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
not from the absence of violence, but despite  
the abundance of it._

\- richard siken, crush

*

When Harry comes to, the air in his nose reeks of cigarette smoke. Unfamiliar voices are shouting around him. The sound reverberates inside Harry's skull, a dull, painful echo.

He thinks he might be lying on the ground - the surface beneath him is hard and cold, a rough scratch like dry leaves underneath his hands instead of a blanket. Harry doesn't remember going to sleep on the ground.

Somebody is pacing around him in slow, careful steps. Their breath is a small rasp, air catching in their throat on the way in.

"What the fuck, Louis. We can't just leave him here," somebody is saying in a thick accent, voice indignant. A rush of wind breaks against Harry's face. He's curious now, tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel too heavy. 

"He's not our responsibility," another voice answers, calm. Steely.

"Then just take him in for the night, I doubt he's got anywhere to go. Fuck's sake."

Finally, Harry wins the intense struggle to show signs of life. He curls his fingers, hisses at the painful pull of his numb skin. 

Everyone quiets – even the steps by Harry's head come to a halt. Something pokes his arm.

"Mate?"

"Yeah," Harry rasps, breath leaving him in a rush. Just then, he realises he's shaking with cold. 

"Oh thank fucking God, he's alive," the accented voice says again, coming closer. A warm hand touches Harry's face, then forcibly opens one of his eyes. 

"Hiya," an incredibly blurry person with a shock of blond hair says from above him, "What's your name then?" 

Harry swats the boy's hand away, immediately freezing when he realises what he's done. For all he knows, he could be lying in a ditch somewhere, and the strangers arguing about taking him in could be a pack of serial killers. 

"Um," he says eloquently when he finally manages to open his eyes. The world comes into focus slowly, tall trees looming above him, reaching for a night sky full of stars. When he left home, it had been nine in the morning. 

"Wh—" Harry huffs, trying to lean up on his elbows, "What time is it? I need to be home before—"

" _Jesus_ ," somebody interrupts him. "You can't be fucking serious." 

Another man – boy? – emerges from the shadows, a hood obscuring his face, his lazy stance a sharp counter to the cutting way he speaks. Harry should probably be scared, but he's more hurt than anything. He's confused; doesn’t know what he's _done_ to deserve someone speaking to him like that. "Excuse me?" he says. He can see better now, a pair of eyes glinting underneath a hood and a concerned-looking blond boy kneeling at Harry's feet, studying him with his head cocked to the side like a dog. 

"Ignore him," he says cheerfully, "I was talking to you first."

"Right," Harry says, slowly as he does, but he finds it very difficult to tear his eyes away from the rude person hiding in the shadows. He'd think that someone so brave with their words would like to deliver them up close. "My name's Harry. Harry Styles." 

The blond gives him a blinding grin. "Nice to meet you, Harry Styles. I'm Niall Horan, and that miserable sack of shit over there is Louis. Zayn's the one standing right behind you, don't get creeped out, he likes to do that." 

Only then does Harry remember the person circling him, and he immediately turns his head to look over his shoulder; follows dirty leather boots to dark skinny jeans to a black shirt to the most beautiful face he's ever seen on a human. After Harry stares for a good ten seconds, Zayn drops the stony expression, quirks his lips to the side and gives Harry a wave, cigarette smoke trailing after his hand. He only looks a little bit like a Greek God. 

"Anyway, Harry Styles, what the bloody hell are you doing laying about the forest unconscious?" Niall expertly pulls Harry's attention back to him.

"Um. I'm not sure?" 

"What's the last thing you remember?" Zayn asks, walks around him to sit down next to Niall. 

"Leaving my house, I guess? I was going to go to the train station... " Harry trails off, trying to recall anything of whatever happened to him. It makes pain bloom behind his eyes, and little else. All he remembers is a flash of red, bright spots dancing beneath his eyelids like the taillights of a car. "Did I get run over?" 

Zayn snorts, smoke coming out of his nostrils. Niall thumps him on the back of the head. 

"I don't reckon you did, but you never know. Do you really not remember anything?" he asks, smile finally dimming a little, the crease of a frown settling between his eyebrows. 

Harry sits up straighter. "No. I mean, I remember something bright red, like lights? But the rest is—"

"Where are you from?" The man in the hood – Louis – asks.

"Do you make it a habit to interrupt people when they're speaking?" Harry quips. He's not usually so rude, but he thinks he can be excused in this particular situation. And if Dark and Broody is planning to kill him, well, at least Harry would've given him a lesson in manners.

Louis steps closer, ignoring Niall's loud cackle in favour of turning his gleaming eyes on Harry. Even the air around him screams derision, and Harry could almost imagine him raising his eyebrows if he had an idea of what he looked like. 

Nobody says anything. Harry stares at Louis for so long he imagines electric blue eyes flashing at him from the dark, a trick of the light. 

"Fair enough," Louis says, in the end. "Do go on."

Harry coughs. "I was actually just gonna—um. I don't remember anything else." Louis snorts. "And I'm from Holmes Chapel." 

"I have no idea where that is," Niall says. 

"Cheshire, obviously—wait, what do you mean? Where are we?" Harry feels panic slowly start to bubble deep inside his gut. The unpleasant feeling he'd had before multiplies tenfold, and he feels his surroundings rush in suddenly, like someone's pulled a blanket off his head; the cold in the air, the damp of the forest floor, the rustling leaves and strange smells. He shivers.

"Um. A little while outta London?" Niall tries, seemingly the only one willing to not be mysterious and provide Harry with information, and. Oh. 

" _London_ London? As in, the capital of England London?" he asks, just in case he'd misheard. 

"No, the other London," Louis laughs, low and biting. He comes closer finally, the moonlight just enough to reveal a sharp-cut jaw and pale skin. "Sorry, Pup."

Nobody's ever called Harry a "pup". Frankly, he finds it quite insulting, but he lets it slide to try and comprehend his current crisis. 

"Do any of you know how I got here?" 

"Nope," Zayn says, finishing his cigarette and putting it out in the dirt, "we just found you here. We smelled—"

"Thank you, Zayn, that's enough," Louis interrupts, _again_. "Listen, Harry. How about we lend you a few quid, get you out of here and back to Holmes Chapel, Cheshire? We can forget this little incident ever happened and we'll all go on our merry way." Something is different in his voice. His tone has shifted, almost pleading. Harry should probably be rational – take the offer, get to a phone, call his mum so she doesn't worry and jump on the first bus he can find. He should probably report three strange boys traipsing about in the woods, just in case. 

Harry is also Harry. 

"Not until you tell me what happened to me," he says stubbornly, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them because Gemma once told him it makes him look like a three-year-old. "You're obviously hiding something." 

Louis laughs. It rings incredibly fake in the tense atmosphere. "Honestly, Harold. That's ridiculous. Are you sure you didn't hit your head—"

"You were bitten," Niall says suddenly, looking at the ground with a determined set to his jaw. Louis makes a warning sound in his direction; if Harry didn't know better, he'd almost call it a growl.

"No I wasn't. Nothing hurts. I don't have any marks." 

"They've healed."

 "That's impossible," Harry says. He's very, very scared. Only a little of it has to do with Louis, who's standing not ten feet from him and positively vibrating with rage.

Zayn smiles at him, a small, genuine smile that holds all the sympathy in the world. "I'm sorry, mate. Look at your shirt."

Harry does, panic rising higher and higher in his throat until it threatens to choke him. He pulls and twists the fabric frantically, trying to breathe when he doesn't find anything on the front and moves to check on his left side, sure he's going to wake up and find out this is all a dream.

Then, his fingers skim over damp, jagged edges of tears more than half a foot long and come away stained dark. He doesn't need daylight to tell that it's blood. 

It's no wonder he was so cold; the shirt is tattered, barely hanging on him. Yet the skin underneath is perfectly smooth, looking the same it did when he got dressed that morning. 

"What," he whispers, so quiet he can barely hear it himself. Desperate tears spring into his eyes. His head is spinning, thoughts clouding over as he tries to keep a hold of himself, to stop the air he's breathing from turning to water in his lungs, from drowning him. "What happened?" 

Louis heaves a defeated sigh. He steps closer, bends down to touch a hand to Harry's face. Harry tries to recoil, but his muscles are frozen. The warmth spreading from Louis's palm is more than welcome. He focuses on that one point of touch, feels for a moment like he's swimming upwards, head just barely breaching the surface of the water. He makes himself focus on Louis's eyes, so blue from this close, and everything else falls away.

"Niall just told you," Louis says, soft and gentle and so unlike his previous words. "You were bitten. I'd give you the old spiel about how _the bite is a gift_ to make you feel better, but I know what it's like and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I'm sorry, I really am." 

Harry shakes his head. "What are you talking about?" he asks, but somewhere, in a corner of his mind he doesn't dare admit exists, he thinks he already knows. 

Louis takes a step back. From underneath his hood, his eyes flash again, more than a reflection of the sky; then they light up. Like water underneath moonlight or Christmas lights on a tree, they shine a bright, paralysing blue. Zayn blinks his own eyes, long lashes keeping them shadowed before he turns them on Harry – a deep, rich gold, so much more than could ever be attributed to the low lighting. 

"A werewolf, Harry. You were bitten by a werewolf," Niall sighs. "And these two like their theatrics."

The world turns black and falls away for a moment. Harry thinks he should probably pass out, but even when he hangs his head and closes his eyes, he remains painfully aware. 

There is no such thing as werewolves, he wants to say. You're all mental and I'm calling the police, he wants to say. Most of all, he just wants to cry. 

"Why did the bite heal?" he asks. He knows why, but he rejects the truth before it can be spoken out loud. He forces his mind to stop spinning, forces all his focus on the words he's saying instead of their meaning. 

"Because you were turned," Louis speaks. Harry refuses to look at him, but from the corner of his eye, he can see the blue flame still burning bright. "You're a werewolf now." 

Harry's hands are shaking, folded in his lap. "But I—I can't be. I'm not a—"

"Monster?" Louis laughs without mirth. He runs a hand over his face, sits down next to Zayn and finally, finally pulls the hood off his head. 

Harry is momentarily struck silent by the stunning man staring back at him. Zayn's model face is background noise compared to Louis's soft hair and ethereal features, traces of stubble and mesmerising eyes; when he finally sees him unveiled, with no protective shadow to hide behind, Harry can't look away. 

"We're all monsters, mate. Comes with the job, really." 

Niall reaches around Zayn to flick Louis on the ear, frowning. "No you're not. Stop being a dick." 

"To be honest, I was just going to reject the whole idea of being a—a—what you guys are," Harry interrupts the exchange, voice trembling, but always watching on, curious. "Don't you need to be all mysterious and stealthy and stuff? 'Cause, I mean, I tripped on the bathtub when I was getting out of the shower this morning. I can't exactly hunt for innocent bunnies when I get a craving for blood, or whatever."

Niall laughs. The corner of Louis's lips quirks up, too. "That's vampires, vampires get cravings for blood. I'm sorry to say that I've only eaten a rabbit once, and it wasn't something I fancy repeating."

"You seem to be taking this well," Zayn quips, lighting up another cigarette. 

Harry shakes his head mutely. His thoughts are a mess, pictures of werewolves in fairytale books mingling with _what am I going to tell mum_. "I don't think it's sunk in yet. It's—I keep expecting to wake up." 

"It won't be real," Louis says, "Not until your first full moon." 

"When's that?" Harry asks, looking up at the sky. The night is cloudless, the moon well on its way to round, and it makes dread pool in Harry's stomach.

"In a week," Niall tells him, voice grim. "You'll need to find somewhere to go." 

"How? I don't even know what to expect, I don't know _anything_ —"

"We can't take care of you," Louis interrupts, eyes on the ground. His voice is suddenly cold again. "We have other things to worry about."

Harry feels the sting of tears finally climb up his throat, claw at his eyes until he has to blink. Breathing gets more and more difficult as desperation settles heavy in his chest. 

"Well what am I supposed to do then? I didn't even know werewolves existed until ten minutes ago! I don't know who bit me or how I got here, I don't even know what any of this means! How am I supposed to find someone to tell me what to do?" The tears are welling up in his eyes now, escaping down his cheeks despite the strong front he tries to put on. He feels more vulnerable than he ever has; he doesn't want them to see him cry. 

"Louis," Zayn says, looking after him as he stands up and turns his back to them all. His voice is deliberately calm, so soothing even Harry feels himself settle down a little. "We can show him how to make it less painful, at least. Liam could give him some books."

"No," Louis answers, voice shaky but sharp. Zayn pulls back immediately, almost like he's been burned. 

"You can't tell him what to do," Niall interjects, face stony. Around him, the forest rustles unsettlingly. ”If he wants to help, there's fuck-all you can do about it." 

"It's my house."  

"But you're not his Alpha."

Louis's shoulders slump. The tension visibly leaves his body. "Niall, please—" 

"No, listen to me. You can't keep doing this. Look at the kid, he's scared out of his mind."

To Harry's surprise, Louis actually does turn to look at him. His nostrils are trembling, almost like he's sniffing for something, and his eyes roam over Harry's face slowly, like he has all the time in the world. He almost looks feral. Harry feels self-conscious under the scrutiny; his fingers itch to wipe away his own cooling tears. 

"Feeling alright, Harry?" Louis asks, out of nowhere.

"Um. No?"

With a small smile, Zayn stands and reaches out a hand to help Harry up. Everything spins for a while as he's hauled into an upright position, forest floor and trees blurring together, the stars imprinting on his vision and blinking back at him from the dark.

Niall sends Louis a loaded look.

“Alright. Alright, come on then," Louis sighs, voice soft and defeated. Harry doesn’t much like the sound of it.

"I could just go, if it's that much trouble," he tries. Bizarrely, he doesn't want to make Louis _sad_ ; he has a face that should always be laughing, Harry thinks. 

He already feels safe under all three of their watchful gazes, and maybe he could remember them and carry that safety with him when he walks out into a life he'll know nothing about. Still, on the inside, he wishes with every cell of his being that they'd take him somewhere warm, somewhere where he could calm down and try to untangle his thoughts. 

Louis's eyes never leave his as a small, amused spark comes to life inside them. "It's fine, Pup. Let's go." 

They walk slowly, enveloped in the sounds of the forest beneath a tangled mess of branches. Louis walks ahead, alone with his head bowed, while Niall hangs back and tries to make conversation. Harry answers in amicable noises and monosyllabic words, watches Zayn kick a rock along the forest floor, lost in his own world. 

In less than ten minutes, the forest starts thinning out; Harry can hear the ever-present noise of traffic and the _zap_ of cars passing at high speed. For the first time, it occurs to him that he has no idea where Louis is leading them. 

"Where are we going?" 

"To our underground lair, obviously," Louis mutters. "We live in a house, just like normal people do, Harold." 

Harry lets the strange nickname slide as he looks around. He can barely see ahead, but they're all walking like they know where they're going. 

Sure enough, it's only a few dozen more steps before the looming silhouette of a house emerges from the dark in front of them. It's a tall building, with a big porch and a fence, the roof a sharp, dark slope. A warm yellow light is on behind one of the ground storey windows. 

"Welcome!" Niall shouts into the night, throwing his hands out like he's presenting a grand prize. From up close, Harry can see the paint on the house peeling in several places, spots more than one gaping hole where railings should be in the porch fence. The drainpipe is bent every which way, the front door scratched so badly he can't tell what the original colour was, and one of the attic windows thumps and rattles as the light night breeze courses through it.

It's a bit of a ruin. Inexplicably, Harry feels drawn to it.

Louis goes in first, opening the door and spilling light onto the porch. The inside of the house looks marginally better, all thick, fluffy rugs and antique wooden furniture. It mostly smells like a combination of boy and buttered popcorn, but when Niall closes the door behind them, Harry feels a little safer from the world.

"Hey!" an unfamiliar voice shouts from somewhere inside the house.

Just seconds later, a boy with big brown eyes pokes his head into the hall. His eyebrows look like caterpillars crawling closer to each other concernedly as he frowns at Harry.

 "Oh, hello."

 "Hi," Harry waves and tries to put on a convincing smile. He's saved by Niall, who thumps him on the back.

 "Harry, this is Liam. Liam, Harry. We found him in the forest."

"What were you doing in the forest?" Liam asks solemnly. Then, his gaze travels down Harry's torso to stop at his tattered t-shirt. "Oh. Who bit you? Is there a new Alpha around? Should we call Bobby?" 

"Calm down, Payno. We don't know who bit him, he's from Cheshire." 

"Oh, I see. Quite a long way you've gone, then. You're probably hungry, aren't you?" 

Harry decides that Liam is a little strange. Considering the night's events, strange might not be so bad. 

"Starving," he says and realises he's not even lying; the last thing he'd eaten was a piece of toast for breakfast. 

"We need to go and kill you a rabbit then," Louis grumbles, but when Harry looks at him, he's already turned away. Liam ignores them and makes his way back into what Harry assumes is the kitchen. 

"Sorry we don't have anything proper, I'm not much of a cook," Liam says, setting out a box of cereal and a bottle of milk. Despite himself, Harry is a little endeared. 

"It's fine," he mumbles through the handful of Coco Pops he's shoving into his mouth dry, then pours a bowl full of them, splashing milk generously all over his dinner and the table. 

It's only when his gaze lands on the chipped red clock on the wall that he remembers it's the middle of the night and his mum's probably out of her mind with worry back home. When he searches the pockets of his jeans for his phone, he finds it dead, a prominent crack in the screen that hadn't been there hours ago. 

He looks around. Behind him, Liam and Zayn are huddled together in hushed conversation. Niall and Louis are nowhere to be seen. 

Harry clears his throat.

"Um. Do you have a phone I could borrow?" he asks politely, wiping off the milk running down his chin as an afterthought. 

Liam seems distracted when he looks back at him, brow still furrowed. He reminds Harry of a grumpy old dog. 

"Sure, mate, here," he hands over a beaten down touchscreen. When Harry pushes the home button, it lights up to a picture of Louis wrapping a pink feather boa around Liam's neck, holding what appears to be a dog toy shaped like a chicken in his other hand. 

Harry doesn't say a thing. 

As soon as his mum's number starts ringing in his ear, Harry's palms start sweating terribly. He hasn't thought far enough ahead to make up an excuse for why he hadn't shown up to the promised pleasant evening of red wine and Scrabble. Somehow, he doesn't think telling his mum he's back in London would be the smartest idea; she still hasn't warmed up to the thought of him being a uni student, all alone in the city, and insisted he stay home until Sunday instead of getting a Saturday train to beat the rush of students returning after reading week. It's Thursday now – he absolutely cannot pretend he just went back to hall on a whim.

"Hello?" his mum's voice sounds distrustful, the same way it does every time an unknown number calls her, and a little breathy and stressed underneath. Despite being with her just that morning, fresh tears spring to Harry's eyes. He wishes she was here to give him a hug and tell him to watch out next time, just like she'd done every time he'd come home with scraped knees and red-rimmed eyes.

"Hey, Mum, it's me," Harry says eloquently.

"Harry!" 

"Um, yeah." He thinks he can hear her sniffing a little bit. He instantly feels terrible, even though none of this is technically his fault. "I'm sorry I didn't call sooner." 

"I was so worried, baby, where are you? Are you okay?" She's walking through the house, slippers shuffling across the tile in the hall. Robin's voice rumbles in the background, asking if Harry's on the phone. Harry's heart clenches at the worry he hears.

"I'm alright, Mum, don't worry. I just, um..." _Think_ , he tells himself. He can already feel a terrible excuse forming on the tip of his tongue, but if he could at least try to lie, just this once in his life—

"I got drunk?” 

The silence on the other end of the line is overwhelming after all the worry. Harry closes his eyes bitterly, cursing himself, and ignores Zayn's unceremonious snort. It's not polite to eavesdrop on other people's conversations, and if Zayn had any manners, he'd know that. 

"Harry," she says in her best Strict Mum Voice. Harry knows what's coming after this – it's the soft-gazed, quiet disappointment that always makes the bottom drop out of his stomach. 

"Mum. I'm really, _really_ sorry—I met Jonny on the way, he didn't know I was back for the week, and I really didn't mean to, he just invited me out for one drink, you know how I get—"

"It's okay, love," and there it is. Harry knows she never means to make him feel so guilty he can't sleep under the weight of it, but that's just what it does to him, hearing her sound like that and knowing he caused it. Disappointing his mum is number one on the list of things he'd never do again, if he could help it. "You're an adult, I can't exactly tell you off for drinking with your friends."

"But I really wanted to be there. I'd read through a crosswords dictionary and everything, I was completely prepared to beat you." 

She laughs a little, watery, shaky. "You can still try tomorrow night. Afraid Robin and I drank all the wine, though." 

"I'll buy some more then," Harry answers, hopeful. 

"That you will." Then, "When are you coming home?" 

Harry has to lie again, like it or not. He very much doesn't. "D'you mind if I come tomorrow evening? I need to sleep it off a bit." 

"That's fine, baby. Just make sure you look after yourself." 

Harry paws at his eyes like a child, embarrassed to be tearing up again after the night he's had, just because his mum is so so _wonderful_.

"I will, Mum. Love you."

"I love you too, baby. See you tomorrow," she hangs up with a click, the last soft string of her voice lingering in Harry's ear. 

He breathes out, deep and even, unsure. Air flows into his lungs a little easier now. He stares at his Coco Pops, now gone big and soggy just the way he likes, the milk in the bowl slowly going brown. Harry turns and gives Liam his phone back, raises an eyebrow at how obvious both Liam and Zayn are being about staring at him. 

"Alright?" Zayn asks, a throwaway question more than anything, but Harry thinks he can hear a little bit of concern behind it. He nods wordlessly, picking his spoon back up.

Ten minutes later, just as Harry's trying to puff up the cereal box to make it look like he'd eaten less than he actually has, Niall quite literally leaps into the kitchen and heads straight for Liam, who begrudgingly opens his arms and lets Niall in for a hug. Niall then lets go, walks over to the table and sits down across from Harry. Zayn quite obviously doesn't find any of it strange. 

"Hello," Harry says, only a little baffled.

His voice seems to startle Zayn and Liam into action. With an ear-splitting scraping sound, both of them sit down at the table and turn to Harry, perfectly in sync. 

The air suddenly becomes heavy, and Harry knows what's coming. 

"So," Liam starts, leaning forward with his hands clasped on the tabletop, eyes still annoyingly earnest, "you need some help."

Harry feels like he should be affronted; that Liam's suggesting he's a weakling or something. He quickly realises that yeah, he really, really does need help.

"Probably. It's a bit scary, you know."

"I do," Liam smiles at him sadly, "Look, Harry. The first thing you need to understand is that there is no cure for this. You're going to be like this – be a werewolf – for the rest of your life." 

Harry still isn't sure he can comprehend the enormity of what everyone's been trying to tell him, but Liam's words drive a point home – however many things have changed, they've changed forever. Harry arms himself with the knowledge for later, for when the desperation comes.

"I understand," he says. He doesn't quite, and he hopes that they know that, too.

Liam nods at him amicably, willing to go along with the illusion. "You haven't started changing spontaneously yet, probably because you were knocked out for so long, but it's only a question of time." 

"What's going to happen to me?" 

"It's going to be a bit, uh...out of control for a while." 

Harry gulps. 

"Nothing too bad, but—it tends to hurt the first time. The whole," Liam waves a hand, "getting used to having your bones rearranged, growing fangs and all that."

"I'm going to grow fangs," Harry deadpans. 

Zayn nods on Liam's right, looking almost excited. "Claws, too. Your ears will go a bit longer and you might get a bit of fur—"

" _Where_." 

"All over, mostly, but it's not really that bad unless you turn full wolf, I don't think," Zayn's grinning sheepishly, like he's not sure it's okay to. Harry is getting increasingly confused.

"Wait—what do you mean full wolf?" 

"Well, it's a bit...complex," Liam starts stroking his chin, looking very pensive. "Basically, once you learn to control your shifts a little – shouldn't take long, mind you, it's all very instinctive – you can either turn into a sort of a wolf-human or an actual wolf, walking on four legs and everything." 

Harry blinks. Then he decides to leave it for later. "Is there anything…good about this?" 

Niall snorts, "You only get superhero powers." 

"Which superhero?" Harry frowns. Zayn, inexplicably, beams at him. 

"What Niall is trying to say is that you'll get superhuman hearing, sight and smell,” Liam supplies helpfully.

"How does that work?" Harry asks, not sure he wants to know. He doesn't think any of his senses have gotten any sharper.

"You'll be able to tell people apart by how they smell," Niall says.  "And smell strong emotions," Zayn picks up.

"And track prey," Liam finishes grimly. "You'll be able to see better in the dark, you'll hear other people's hearts beating if you focus properly, you can eavesdrop on conversations you're not supposed to be a part of," he says the last one while glaring at Zayn. 

"Oh," Harry says. "But I...I don't feel any different?"

"Don't worry about it," Liam waves a hand, "it takes a while. Are you feeling alright, by the way? Looks like it was a huge bite."

To his own shock, Harry realises he's completely forgotten about the actual bite, and about the fact that, despite the blood and the gaping holes in his shirt, there isn't a single mark on his skin. "What about the healing? Is that part of it, too?" 

Zayn nods. "You're not, like, immortal or anything, but if all your limbs are attached and there's nothing inside the wound, most things will heal."

"Good thing I won't need that," Harry mutters, standing up and carrying his bowl to the sink, in dire need of a break. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Niall shoot Liam and Zayn an amused look. He doesn't want to know what it's about. He doesn't care if they fight actual real-life vampires or just do dangerous things out of a long while. 

Harry wants absolutely no part of it. None.

*

They take him out behind the house, to the middle of what looks like a failed attempt at a garden. Harry's a bit cold, and he wonders what the precise reasons for taking this outside are.

"So," Liam begins, looking so perky Harry wants to punch him a little, "as far as we know, you haven't transformed yet. The changes are going to take a lot longer to set in if you leave it be, and it could be dangerous to let the wolf control you, so. I'm gonna teach you how to transform back and forth."

Oh.

"Um," Harry says. He looks uncertainly at the first person in his line of vision, who happens to be Niall. The only reassurance he gets from him is a thumbs-up. "Okay."

Liam motions for him to come closer. While Harry tries to make his way to him without falling into a hole, Zayn hot on his heels, Niall gives them all a wave and heads towards the house. "Reckon I'll leave you guys to it, then. Good luck, Harry!"

"Wait—not that I—I mean, aren't you going to help as well?" Harry stutters. 

"I wouldn't be much help, mate," he laughs, genuinely amused. 

"Why?" 

Niall raises an eyebrow, "Because I can't grow fur on command?" 

"Oh, you mean you're not—"

 "Nah. 'M, like, a hunter, I guess. I'm supposed to be on lookout for these terrifying furballs and shoot them if they're up to no good, but. Well. You know.”

Harry doesn't, but he nods to show he understands. Somewhat. Niall is supposed to kill werewolves; he hangs out with them in the middle of the night instead. Nothing difficult to understand there – it seems very much like Niall, from what Harry's seen of him so far. 

Once Niall is gone, Harry is left alone with two werewolves. This is now his life, apparently.

He can barely make out two silhouettes standing in the garden with him. The moon, stars and lit up windows are the only real sources of light this deep in the forest.

"Ready?" Zayn asks, again in that soft, gentle tone of his. Harry reckons he probably isn't, and never will be.

"Ready," he nods anyway. "What do I do?"

Liam shrugs, "Just let it go, really. Try to close your eyes and relax a bit, imagine—I don't know, imagine something wolfy."

One of Harry's eyes, already closed, opens again. "Are you sure you know how to do this?" 

Zayn snorts and steps closer, light painting yellow shadows on his face. "It's been a while since we've had to do this for the first time. Try relaxing your muscles, breathe evenly, then look me in the eyes." 

Harry's a little taken aback, but he does what he's told. It takes him a while to get his breath to even out, heart jackrabbiting in his ribcage, expanding and stealing space meant for his lungs. He becomes suddenly aware of every breath of cold air he's pulling in through his nose. Once he feels like he maybe won't throw up if he tries hard enough, he opens his eyes. He's met with Zayn's burning golden gaze. 

Zayn's face does have fur coming out of it, some along his jaw and his sideburns, some sprouting around his eyebrows. It makes his face look a little grotesque. There's nothing funny, though, about the teeth Harry can see peeking out, pressing down on Zayn's bottom lip. He looks equal parts terrifying and powerful and Harry gets distracted, trying to see everything, assess and memorise every single change. 

"My eyes, Harry," Zayn tells him, voice still kind, still human. Harry startles. 

He does as he's told, stares right into Zayn's irises. He focuses so hard the colours start to change, warm gold into a bright yellow, taking on an orange hue and going back. He barely registers when the tingling in his whole body starts, spreading up his arms and down his back like spider feet. It makes him shiver.

Slowly, blink by blink, the garden stretches out around him in hues of blue and grey, abandoned beanpoles and a rusty wheelbarrow as clear and sharp in front of him as they would be in daylight. Something itches underneath his fingernails; when Harry brings them up to his face, they've turned into long, pale claws. The tingling intensifies on his face, the back of his hands, his chest and back – he doesn't have to check to know it's fur, making its way out of his still human skin. Harry's teeth press down on his tongue, sharp enough that he can taste blood in his mouth.

Harry's heart beats in his ears; the world narrows around him to that one sound, shivering through him. New smells invade his nose, things he's never smelled before and can't identify, too many of them at once; wet soil, dry leaves, rotting wood, Zayn and Liam's unique smells probably tangled somewhere in the mess. 

The headache that blooms behind his eyes is unexpected in its force, feels like something's broken inside his head while trying to cope with the sudden changes. He tries to speak, but his tongue feels heavy, too big for his mouth. Harry's head is pounding, the rush of blood in his veins so loud it swallows every other sound, and his vision goes red around the edges. 

He hears a low growl, then belatedly realises it's coming from him. If he was still human, it may have passed for a groan of pain, but as such, it's terrifying on a whole new level. Harry's thoughts, a jumbled mess ever since he'd woken up in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, untangle a little; his worries fall away without care. The only thing he wants right now is for the pain to be over, to stop stop _stop_.

It's a little too late to realise what he's doing when his own voice, yelling, gets to his ears; his claws are already on their way to his abdomen, fingers curled and poised for attack. 

The first draw of blood is intensely relieving. The nerves screaming inside his head quiet down, focus the pain into the four long scratches he's given himself. 

He thinks he gets what 'the wolf' Liam had mentioned is, now – in these eyes, everything seems simpler, more primal, instinctive. Harry doesn't want to bother with complicated thoughts again.

As the sting fades and the pounding behind his temples resumes, Harry drags both sets of claws through his clothes, destroying precisely sewn seams with the flick of a finger. He's looking for a good spot to strike, just a little, just so that some more hurt would go away. 

Two pairs of golden eyes come closer to him, too close, until it feels like looking at a sky with four burning suns. They're shouting something, but he doesn't understand, can't hear them because of his blood, because of how _loud_ it is.

He thinks he catches a glimpse of vivid, icy blue for a moment. His heart pounds faster, he can hear it and feel it trying to make its way out of his chest, but the rush in his ears, the pressure on his temples, the pull on his eyes eases, bit by bit, until everything feels soft and fuzzy and tender. 

Harry feels fingers on his skin, thinks dejectedly about the hot blood on his hands, and faints.

*

"Well this is becoming a habit," Niall quips, head buried half inside a bag of crisps. He's the first thing Harry sees when he wakes up.

"What happened?" he groans, disoriented. 

"Not much, mate. You did your little transformation thing, you passed out, we brought you in. And you slept for," Niall pulls a phone out of his pocket, "eleven hours." 

Harry groans again, runs his hands over the bed he's laying in in search of a pillow to smother himself with. When he finds none, he digs his fingers into the bedspread.

Then, he remembers. 

He sits up abruptly, cold sweat immediately breaking out on his forehead. When he lifts his hand, it looks perfectly normal, but the ghostly image of claws stained with blood replaces what he's seeing. Memories flicker to life inside his head, darkness and shades of grey and bright flashes of werewolf eyes. 

The room they're in is furnished in light colours, white and cream and beige, everything tinted orange in the morning sunlight, soft in the way only mornings can be. It's calming, to be somewhere so comfortably bright, and it's the only thing that saves Harry from going into a full-blown panic attack. 

He can feel Niall watching him, now. Maybe he's looking out for a change in Harry, anticipating the quick slide into a feral monster. Maybe he's waiting for the moment Harry loses it and waiting to run.

The worst thing about it, Harry thinks hysterically as he checks his bare abdomen for scratches that are no longer there, is that he doesn't feel all that different. There is a slight shift, a feeling becoming more prominent the more awake he is. He can't quite think of words to describe it; he still feels like he controls himself, but there's something bright red and wild that's sleeping inside his chest, ready to be awakened at a moment's notice. 

"If it helps any, yours definitely wasn't the worst one I've seen," Niall offers. Harry flinches, wraps his arms around himself. 

"Right," he mutters, looking around in an attempt to locate his shirt. He doesn't find it, and he's not surprised. 

"Seriously. It's a lot to take in, a lot of people deal with it way worse than you have." 

"It was just..." Harry shakes his head. He has no words to describe it; his head is completely empty save for _monster_ , overwhelming and bright like a neon sign. 

"Try not to worry about it, mate. You did good," Niall says, throws his balled-up crisp bag at Harry’s head, and takes his leave. The door shuts behind him with a soft thud. Harry is left in sudden, terrifying silence. 

He doesn't want to think about it any more than he has to, he really doesn't. But his first full moon as a _werewolf_ is in a week, and the way it stands now, he's at serious risk of hurting himself – or worse, somebody else. 

Harry's heart thuds in his ears, unusually loud. He only just remembers how overwhelmed he was when all his senses heightened so suddenly, the pain of his headache whiting out some of the memories. Now, if he listens closely, he can hear Niall whistling quietly and opening cupboards downstairs; the drip-drip-drip of the crooked drainpipe, Zayn's heavy boots walking circles into the back porch, the attic window whistling in the wind. 

It's fascinating, it really is. Harry would give it back in a heartbeat. 

After about ten minutes of staring at the wall and trying to cope with the thought of living with this for the rest of his life, he figures it's been a bit too long and he should probably go outside. He's torn between thanking everyone for their hospitality and running until he's off the planet, and begging them to please teach him everything they know, to please tell him that he will feel at peace with himself eventually. 

That he'll deal with being able to kill with his own bare hands.

There is no shirt to be found anywhere in the room, but Harry himself has no qualms about nudity. He finds his way to a rickety set of stairs. The halls of the house are surprisingly bright, warm and smelling of old wood. 

As he's walking down carefully, he hears conversation in the kitchen. He can't quite make out what they're saying, though; the hum of his own blood is still too loud. 

The door is standing ajar, open in invitation. From inside, Harry smells tea and burnt eggs. 

When he steps in, he's frozen on the spot by four pairs of eyes. Harry can't help himself; he immediately looks to Louis, the most vibrant presence in the room, who seems like he's trying to be subtle as he drags his eyes down Harry's torso. He catches Harry staring immediately. Still, he doesn't seem angry, or patronising, or like he wants to laugh in Harry's face for being weak. It’s... strange.

 Harry thinks he remembers something from yesterday, as he looks into Louis's bright blue eyes. A flash, a warm pair of hands.

"Morning," Liam says. Harry barely registers him, lost in his thoughts. He's desperate to conjure up a proper memory, remember what actually happened, if what he's thinking about is even possible.

"Morning," he replies eventually. Liam's looking at him all calm and supportive, nothing but sympathy written on his face. 

Harry can't quite believe it. 

"I'd offer you breakfast, but, um." 

"You burned it?" Harry tries to guess, rubbing his nose to chase away the smell that only gets more prominent when he steps closer to the table. 

"Not me!" Liam almost shouts, affronted. "It was Zayn's turn to cook today." 

Harry looks over at Zayn, and gives up on fighting his first smile of the day. Instead of furrowed brows and moody eyes, Zayn's pouting at Liam like a child. 

"Have you guys eaten at all?" he asks, then blushes. This might be a great time to start curbing his _motherly instinct_ , as his mum insists on calling it. 

None of them bat an eye, though. "I had crisps," Niall says, smug. On the other side of the table, Liam shrugs noncommittally. 

"It happens." 

Screw it. "I could make you something, if you want?" Harry suggests, already halfway to the fridge.

"You can cook?" Zayn's eyes light up. Niall stretches his hands out to the heavens, Liam sits up straighter, and even Louis, unaffected as he tries to look, gets an interested spark in his eye.

"Um," Harry scratches his hair, "yes?" 

"Oh God, please," Liam says, face begging. 

When Harry opens the fridge, he's tempted to ask if he's got the wrong door. The massive space is half-empty, half filled with things that don't look fit for human or werewolf consumption; Harry spots an open carton of juice, a half-drunk glass of milk that's turning green on top, and two garlic cloves. Despite Zayn's attempt at eggs, though, it seems that there's still an entire carton left. Harry grabs it, then stands on his tiptoes to dig deep, and manages to come up with a small stump of butter, two spring onions, a few spoonfuls of yoghurt and a string of cherry tomatoes.

When he sets the ingredients on the counter, a strange silence settles over the room. 

"What are you gonna make out of that?" Niall asks, voice dubious. 

Harry suppresses a laugh. "I was thinking scrambled eggs?" 

"With tomatoes." 

"Yes. Veggies are good for you," Harry sing-songs as he raids the cupboards for a pan. Just the thought of cooking makes him feel better instantly. 

With a loud scrape across the floor, Louis pushes himself back to lean on the hind legs of his chair. When Harry looks at him, he’s put his arms behind his head, a smirk in the corner of his mouth that makes his face twist. "Well then, boys. An attractive, shirtless man is cooking us all breakfast. I feel like I’m in a porno.” 

Harry breaks an egg and ignores him.

*

"Oh my God. Oh my God, this is delicious."

Harry looks up from his own plate to look at Niall who, by the looks of it, is lost in the throes of passion with his forkful of egg. 

"He's right, Harry, this is fantastic," Liam says enthusiastically, biting into a roll that Harry dug up in the dark, mouldy corners of the freezer. "I didn't even know you could make something this good with what we have in the fridge." 

"Yeah, about that," Harry starts, because he's concerned for other people's health and wellbeing, thank you very much, "When's the last time you went grocery shopping?" 

Zayn snorts. Liam tries to kick him under the table, but he accidentally gets Harry instead.

"I was just going to go today or tomorrow," he says unconvincingly. "It's sort of my responsibility?" 

"Do you have a list?" 

"Uh...no?"

How does one shop without a grocery list, Harry doesn’t know. "You should make one," he says, trying to appear experienced and wise just the way his mum had when they'd spoken about managing his groceries for the first time, just before he'd moved away for uni. "It helps." 

Louis laughs, startling everyone, including himself. He claps a hand over his mouth in a move so endearing Harry's heart actually clenches. In that one split second, Louis looks soft, carefree, so different from the boy hiding under the hood, the one who refused to take Harry in,the one who looked at him, smirking, like he was a lesser life form. 

Harry might have some kind of strange fascination with Louis and his unbearably pretty face. He has bigger problems at the moment. 

With Louis unwound, if only for a second, the mood around the table relaxes. Zayn has a soft smile on his face, looking between Louis and Harry. Niall is still devouring his breakfast with laser-like focus. 

Harry likes this, cooking for someone who hasn't yet seen all the magic he can conjure up at the stove, someone who seems to enjoy what he puts on the plate so genuinely. He likes cooking for people; he likes to care.

Naturally, Zayn has to go and ruin the mood.

"So, Harry," he starts as he wipes his mouth with a napkin, "how are you feeling?"

Harry almost recoils at the harsh slap of reality. He'd been able to forget, for just a little while, and he'd felt so content for those short few minutes. 

"Alright," Harry tries. He sounds shaky even to his own ears. 

"You don't have to pretend, mate," Louis says. He's back to sounding cold, but a spark of warmth lingers in his eyes. "We all know it's bad." 

Harry smiles a little ruefully, gathers everyone's plates and takes them to the sink. "Yeah. It's fine, though." 

"I promise you'll get used to it," says Liam sympathetically, the only one actually looking at Harry. To his right, Zayn is tracing a ridge in the tabletop with his fingernail, pushing a little too hard, if the sound of splintering wood is anything to go by.

Harry tries to pretend he's not miserable as he sits heavily back in his chair. He probably fails. To his horror, a lump rises in his throat. It's difficult to breathe, here in a strange house in the middle of the woods, surrounded by very helpful and somewhat incompetent strangers. Harry's not panicked, not in the way he was last night; this is more desperation, bitter tears lodged on the back of his tongue. For a moment he wants, more than anything, to find whoever bit him and _hurt_ them, the rage flaring red and hot. None of this is his fault, and yet he's the one whose life is probably ruined forever.

"How?" he asks finally, and his voice comes out broken. Liam's mouth quirks in sympathy. 

"Slowly," Louis tells him, eyes intense. "It's going to be hell for a while, but you'll get through it. I promise." 

It's seems so uncharacteristic, this resolutely kind side of him. His face is open enough that Harry can get a glimpse of him underneath the front he puts on. 

He shakes his head – half to see what Louis's reaction will be, half because he feels truly, honestly lost.

"Listen to me. We didn't tell you this before, you were freaked out enough as it was, but the bite? It can kill you. If all that power that you got hadn't found something to latch on to, a strong enough spirit, it would have destroyed you. There's a reason you made it through, and don't you dare give up now. If you need us, we can help you, but you can't live your life scared of yourself. You can be powerful, Harry, you will be, but you need to take this the way it is. Don't try to be someone you're not." 

Harry blinks at Louis, at the fire that's suddenly alight in his eyes, at the fading ring of electric blue around his irises. 

_If you need us, we can help you_. That's what Louis had just said. The same Louis who snapped _no_ at the idea of Harry even coming into his house not twenty-four hours before.

Harry's stomach clenches with desperate hope. Maybe they're not going to send him on his merry way with no idea what to do. Maybe if Louis, the cold, pessimistic one, can believe in Harry, Harry can believe in himself too. Maybe the monster inside him can be tamed, bent to his will. 

"You were there, weren't you?" he asks, even though he didn't mean to. It's so clear in his mind's eye now, Louis's face with the sharp features of a wolf, Louis's hands reaching out to hold his face in a grip so strong it could easily snap his neck.

Louis looks a little startled, but he faces Harry head on. "I was."

Harry wants to investigate a little; ask why it'd been necessary to have three people hold him back, why Louis didn't just ignore him like he seemed so intent to do; why now, when Harry's about to leave, he suddenly doesn't mind him being around.

"Thank you," he says instead.

*

"There's actually a library in this house," Harry breathes, awed, standing in the open double door.

The walls are covered in shelves upon shelves of books, more bookcases lining the floor in neat aisles, a pandemonium of faded colours. Several plush armchairs sit pushed tight against the walls, tall windows light dust motes in the air, and the melted candles on low coffee tables lend the library an air of age and wisdom. It looks very old but very well taken care of, with red carpets bright and windows gleaming. 

"Sure is," Liam says, stroking the back of one of the chairs absentmindedly. "We don't really go here much, to be honest. It's got some great werewolf books, though." 

He motions for Harry to follow him, and Harry does so without question. He's more than a little overwhelmed, trying to take everything in. 

He'd never even dreamed of a place like this – a house hidden in the forest, old and run down, looking like it belongs in a different century; and four strange, strange boys in it, as mysterious as they are wonderful. It feels a little like an adventure, a little like being inside a fairytale, to be allowed in their small world, if only for a while. 

They stop in front of an isolated shelf, all the way down a long aisle. The wood it's made of looks darker than the other furniture, and the books in it are a muted palette of browns and greys. 

"I've read all of these," Liam says, sounding very satisfied with himself. "Had to use a dictionary, though." 

"All of them?"

"Yep," he reaches to take a small brown paperback off the shelf. The words _J. C. Silsbury's A Complete Guide to Life With Lycanthropy_ shine dully across the front. "This one's the best. Written by an actual werewolf, too - a lot of these are people who have never seen an actual wolf, let alone one of us, and it's mostly fairytale bull – and here's some myths and legends, if you're interested." He pulls out book after book, loading them happily into Harry's hands. "There's a few medical ones, too, but I swear those are half in Latin." 

"That's fine," Harry huffs, trying to keep his balance. "These are enough, I'm not that fast of a reader." 

"Sure," Liam chirps, "Just, hold on—oh, here it is." He pulls the only red book off the shelf to Harry's right. The cover says nothing, decorated only with a silvery etching of two wolves sitting across from each other, and Liam blushes suspiciously as he hands it to him. 

"Thanks, Liam," says Harry, and is answered with a smile. 

"It's really not a problem," says Liam, "These have far more than we could ever tell you, and a lot of things we'd probably forget about. Werewolf stuff is very individual," he says seriously. 

On Harry's insistence, they take a little more time to walk around the library. Liam's fingers absently trace the spines lined up on the shelves. After some strategic prompting, he tells Harry more about the house – build in the 1800s and Louis's now, inheritance from some long gone relative. He's careful about it, reluctant, and Harry doesn't push any more when he steers the topic in a different direction. Instead, he tells Harry about the Dutch family who built the house, the stories of their ghosts who wouldn't rest because they wanted to return to their homeland. 

Harry doesn't believe in ghosts, but he can't help finding himself completely fascinated. Just thinking about someone walking this library floor a hundred years ago sends pleasant shivers down his spine. 

The sudden noise of a door opening has them both turning around, leaning over to peek in between the aisles. 

"Liam?" Zayn's voice calls out. 

"Over here," Liam shouts back. Underneath the tall ceiling, their voices echo. 

"Hey," Zayn smiles from the other end of the aisle, "I'm going. Just wanted to say bye." 

Harry almost coos, but he does manage to hold himself back. 

Liam grins happily, jogs to Zayn's side and gives him a hug, then pats down the shoulder of Zayn's leather jacket. 

Harry suspects this is half the reason he likes these people so much already – there's a lot of hugs to go around. According to Gemma, Harry himself is insufferably tactile, and people usually tend to get annoyed with his constant touching. 

"Where's he going?" asks Harry, relaxed as he collects his books and stacks them up. It takes him a few seconds to realise he's very much a guest in the house, and inquiring about Zayn's whereabouts might be crossing the line by a lot. 

"He's got work," Liam answers, without hesitation, pleasant as he leads Harry back to the doors. "He lectures art history." 

"Oh, cool," Harry says, honestly impressed. Teaching has always been something he thought he'd like to do, particularly with small kids, but he'd balked as he was filling out his uni applications. The thought of so many people depending on him to teach them, to direct them towards the right course in life had been both exciting and terrifying, and the scared half of him had won in the end. "I'd wanted to be a teacher." 

"Really?"

"Yeah. I wanted to teach kids, though." 

"So does Zayn," Liam says, then frowns to himself. 

"Why doesn't he, then? He has the qualifications, right?" Harry asks.

"Yeah, but I guess he's comfortable with where he is now," says Liam. Harry isn't consciously listening for it, but he still hears Liam's heart speed up. He lets it slide; he doesn't actually have any right to know about their personal lives. "Anyway, what about you?" 

Harry shrugs. "I'm in uni. Sociology." 

"What uni?"

"UEL," Harry says.

"Oh, so you live in London?" Liam perks up again. Harry would easily peg him for some kind of puppy shapeshifter, with the eyes and the excitability.

"Yeah. I was visiting my mum when I...when I got here." 

"You're really close to us, then. We should hang out together!" Harry is going to pretend it's Liam's puppy eyes that have him nodding enthusiastically, not the terrifying thought of being a freshly bitten werewolf in the middle of London. 

When they emerge back in the dusty hall, the clock tells Harry he'll need to go if he wants to make it to Holmes Chapel at a reasonable hour. He asks Liam for bus connections, and is promptly sat in front of a laptop with the schedules already pulled up. On the other side of the kitchen, Liam helps himself to leftover scrambled eggs. 

"There's one that goes to the city at noon," Harry mutters, mostly to himself. "Then I can take a train home at one."

"From King's Cross?" 

Harry glances back at the computer screen. "Euston."

Liam nods. "Don't worry about the bus to London then, we can drive you." 

Just then, Niall pokes his head into the kitchen. He clutches his heart theatrically when he sees the website Harry's on. 

"Leaving us so soon?"

 Harry fights a smile. "I'll be back."

Nial pumps his fist, Liam chuckles, and Harry gets up to go get dressed before he remembers that his shirt is no more. He looks down at himself and back up, lost.

"Right," Liam says suddenly, "forgot you're half naked." 

He disappears down the hall a little faster than Harry thinks is humanly possible. He's back within a minute, handing Harry a black band shirt and a soft woolen jumper. 

When Harry raises a questioning eyebrow at it, Liam crosses his arms. "It's cold out. Put it on."

While Harry's trying to make the clothes – a little small for him – work, Liam magics up a bag and stacks the books he's lent Harry into it. Harry locates his shoes in the cupboard by the door, packs his broken phone in with the books, and rustles through all his trouser pockets for some money. He only has fifteen quid, but he's determined to make it work.

Then, there's nothing left to do except say goodbye. To Harry's surprise, Niall hugs him without joking, warm and firm, exactly as great a hugger as Harry had thought he'd be. Liam takes a pair of car keys from a bowl in the hall and calls out to Louis twice, but he doesn't show. 

Harry is not at all disappointed. 

To Harry's surprise, there are two cars parked a little ways down the road under a haphazardly made wooden shelter; he must've missed them last night.

Liam points him to the sliver Toyota, a pretty, small car. Inside, they immediately crank up the heat and the radio, and Liam engages Harry in idle chitchat to the sound of Bastille.

From behind the windscreen of the car, the forest around them is beautiful in the noon light. Autumn finally seems to have come, leaves flying around them coloured in hues of orange and yellow and red, sunlight setting them ablaze. Harry leans back, looks at the nature surrounding him, and stretches his fingers out to touch the air vents, sighing happily at the warmth. 

The path starts sloping downwards and turns into an asphalt road. Just as the wall of trees breaks right before them and opens into a road full of cars passing by, Harry catches a glimpse of something bright in the foliage. 

He turns to his right, leans forward to see better over Liam in the driver's seat, and then he spots it – a wolf. The biggest wolf he'd ever seen, probably, and so ethereal-looking Harry thinks for a moment it might just be an illusion. 

The animal's fur is a very light grey, darkening around its muzzle and enormous paws. Harry doesn't even think of being afraid – the wolf is just sitting there, looking at him somewhat pensively.

Before Harry can point it out to Liam, the car tyres shift beneath him as the hum of the motor intensifies, meaning Liam's found a gap they can fit into. Harry doesn't let his gaze waver even when he has to turn around in his seat. The wolf looks back at him, unblinking. 

Just before the trees cut off Harry's vision, he glimpses a flash of electric blue in its eyes.

 A trick of the light, he tells himself.

*

Euston Station on a late Friday morning is as busy as Harry's ever seen it. He has to stand in line for fifteen minutes to even reach the lady selling tickets. All around him, excited tourists dig accidental elbows into his back in a rush to get out their maps.

Harry usually loves the hustle and bustle of the station, all of the big city congregating into a hive of rush and noise and eccentricity, but right now, all he wants is to get home and hug his mum. Despite only waking up a few hours ago, he's exhausted.

Thankfully, Liam, bless his puppy-eyed little soul, waits in line with him, probably out of solidarity more than anything else. When Harry finally secures a ticket, blushing profusely when Liam hands him the rest of the money he needs to pay for it, it's well after noon and he only has half an hour before his train is set to leave. It's a different platform than usual - Harry, reluctant to take any chances, decides to find it as soon as possible. 

Liam follows him, sticking close to him like a shadow, and Harry can unconsciously hear his heartbeat getting faster as he takes everything in. Harry himself sniffs a little, curious to see if he can distinguish anything in particular. The smell of iron and dust and sweat is what hits him first, less than pleasant, before he starts to recognise the subtler scent of burgers and doughnuts, of paper and smoke and washing powder. Every person passing them smells a little different, and the constant change is exhilarating. Looking looking up at the concrete ceiling, Harry thinks he understands Liam, just a little. 

"That's it, right?" Liam points to the left from where they're standing. There's a train already waiting at the platform, purring softly as people load in their luggage.

Harry consults his ticket. "Yeah, platform five." 

Liam grins and leads the way, past the customer information stand and a currency exchange place. Harry doesn't question him still sticking around.

Once they're a ways down the platform, standing outside a compartment that looks sufficiently empty, Harry looks at the train longingly. The plush seats seem to be calling to him, even if the entire train probably smells like piss. 

He lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug when he turns to Liam, "Guess I better go. If I want to, you know, grab a place to sit." 

He doesn't plan on being so awkward. His toes scrunch a little in his shoes as he tries to balance himself, swinging his arms awkwardly. The bag of books he's been carrying is digging uncomfortably into his collarbone. 

"You do that," Liam is still grinning. It's as lovely as it is annoying. It makes Harry feel like he has something on his face.

"Alright," he nods, making an aborted motion with his hand. He grinds his teeth so hard they ache. "I'm going, then." 

Liam, _bless him_ , smiles a little softer and steps closer, arms snaking around Harry before he has a chance to react. He's not sure if it's a werewolf thing, or if both Liam and Niall just happen to be fantastic huggers—either way, Harry feels the awkwardness seep right out of him, some of the tension in his muscles easing. He hugs Liam right back, holding on a little tighter than would perhaps be appropriate after only just having met someone, but he thinks their situation allows for it, just this once. 

"Thanks for everything," he barely remembers to say. That's quite appalling, honestly, seeing as Liam and the others are the reason he hopefully won't go on a killing spree under the closest full moon.

"It was no problem," Liam says into Harry's shoulder before he pulls back. "We were happy to help."

Harry grimaces at the memory of Louis's cold, dismissive face when Harry shouted at him absolutely terrified. He says nothing. 

"What about these?" he asks instead, lifting the canvas bag in his hand, all spiky from the book corners. 

"Don't worry about it," Liam says, smiling again, "You can give them back the next time you're around."

Harry recognises it for what it is; a promise that, if he decides to show up again, he will be welcome. He fights the feeling all the way, but the words still warm him all the way down to his toes. 

Finally, when he's said all his goodbyes, Harry steps onto the train. The air is pleasantly warm inside, heating cranked up, and he sighs in contentment when he finds an empty seat and sinks into it. The doors start closing as he's pushing his bag under the seat; when he looks up, the world outside is just starting to move. Like a light in the middle of the sea, Harry's eyes immediately meet Liam's – the werewolf is standing on the platform, waving to Harry like a few other people around him are doing.

Harry waves back until he can't see the platform anymore. Then, he closes his eyes, leans back, and softly sinks into sleep.

*

Their house (Harry hasn't, and will not learn to refer to it as his mum's anytime soon) looks exactly the same way it did on Wednesday morning. He doesn't know why he expected it to be different—maybe it's something about the way he feels years older, like he's lived through half a lifetime of emotions in just one night. The Harry that walked out of the house some thirty hours ago and didn't realise he'd forgotten his keys already feels aeons away.

The little window in the front door winks at him with warm yellow light as he knocks. Mum is probably waiting by the door and throws it open in under two seconds, but Harry doesn’t feel like saying anything.

She looks at him quietly with her hand on the door handle, trying and failing to look stern. She must see something in him; in the slump of his shoulders, or the shaky downward tilt of his mouth, in his interlaced fingers or the toes of his shoes scuffing the ground. She must see something, and the first movement she makes is to draw Harry into her arms. 

"Hi, Mum," he just about manages to breathe before his throat closes up. _I'm home_ , he adds in his head, a little thing they've started to say sometime after his dad and before Robin, when it was just the three of them in a big house. 

"Hey, baby," she answers, voice soft like silk and sweet like honey, happy and soothing at the same time. 

As Anne's hands card through Harry's hair, he takes his time to expand his senses again, to try and see how much more of his home he can take in now. His mum smells like the washing powder she uses, like apple shampoo and dish soap and cinnamon, like her perfume and something that's just _her_ ; something that makes Harry think of cozy evenings by the fireplace, of Christmases spent helping her in the kitchen and summers when she'd let him and Gemma sleep in a tent in the back garden and they'd give her a hug each in thanks. He commits the smell to memory immediately, carves it into his heart, desperate not to forget, no matter what happens. 

Harry is a mess; he doesn't realise he's actually started crying until his mum's sweater starts getting wet underneath where his face is resting, head on her shoulder like she's still taller than him. He pulls away a little, wipes his face with the sleeve of his borrowed jumper, tears and snot and all. 

"Sorry," he croaks out, voice rough like he's not used it in days.

"Don't apologise, baby," she takes his hand, pulls him in so she can shut the door. "Are you okay?" 

Harry doesn't think it's all that hard to tell exactly how not okay he is. He wants to tell her everything, just _spill_ , pour his heart out, and then maybe cry some more, but he can't, not yet. There's a whole bag of books lying kicked in the corner that he needs to read, to figure out more about who – what – he is now. 

"I'm fine, Mum. I was just, uh. Really looking forward to coming back home," he says, so slow and stilted he knows it has no hope of passing as a real excuse. "I'm sorry I missed game night."

"It's alright, darling, don't worry. You should lie down for a while, you look exhausted."

She runs her fingers lightly over the bags underneath his eyes, tutting quietly to herself. Harry feels on edge, not tired at all after sleeping for the entire five-hour train drive. Still, he feels uncomfortably exposed in the light of the foyer, thinks he could do with a while alone, where he can prepare for his mum's curious eyes going after his secrets. He's completely out of his depth here; he doesn't _keep_ any secrets from her, he never has.

"Sounds good," he manages to smile. She smiles back. 

"Wonderful. Come find me when you wake up, I'll make you a cuppa." 

She's looking at him fond, as soft as always, but the small wrinkle right between her eyebrows, the one that appears anytime she's worried, is still a prominent ridge in her skin. Mum kisses him on the cheek, pulls her cardigan tighter around herself, and goes to the kitchen, slippers shuffling across the floor. 

Harry gathers his books and his dignity. He walks up the stairs uninterrupted, thanking his lucky stars that Robin hasn't come home from work yet. 

Harry's room is just the way he left it - down to the last wad of paper he'd crumpled up and thrown on the floor after a failed attempt at homework on Wednesday morning – ages ago. 

Immediately after he sits heavily down on the bed, Harry knows he won't be able to sleep, keyed up as he is. Instead, he tugs on the comforter to wrap it around himself, and stacks Liam's books on his side table into a neat little chimney. He leaves the small, brown one – _A Complete Guide to Life With Lycanthropy_ – on the bed, the mysterious red book right underneath. 

Harry settles down and opens the paperback, fingers gentle on the frail, yellowing paper. The very first page has a stain on it, something that looks vaguely like jam, and the corners of various pages throughout are bent down in huge dog ears. It look well-worn and well-read, just the way books should be. 

He skims the first chapter, the contents of it a little overwhelming, a slew of historical facts and years dating the first records of lycanthropy. The second one describes things he's already been through – being bitten, dealing with immediate aftermath and the first transformation. There, a short paragraph catches his eye.

_Feelings of anger and heightened negative emotion are very common in new werewolves. The Wolf needs time to settle in and become part of yourself, and fighting it will only make you agitated. In those confusing, sleepless nights, I have found it useful to try and reach inside me to find the Wolf and calm it down. It is vital to focus on the positives of your new identity, and to find people you can trust with the information of what has happened to you. As evidenced by the many recent and historical events described in the previous chapter, we can all be a force for good. It is my sincerest hope that this book will be a stepping stone on your path to self-discovery. Keep it at hand. Use it. Tear it apart, if that's what calms you down._

__Harry feels uncomfortably like he's reading a flowery psychology book, but the information he finds keeps him turning the pages. There are separate chapters on the werewolf sense of smell and sight, one about their heightened strength and how to channel it and get it out, one comparing wolf behaviour to that of a werewolf. Harry learns a lot about scent marking and territory, and about how he could, apparently, easily lift a car if he wanted.

It's not a thick book, and it only takes Harry an hour to read through to the last chapter, titled _The First Full Moon_. He shifts uncomfortably upon seeing the words, glancing out of the window at the dark sky. He'd snagged a look at the lunar calendar hung on the wall of Louis's kitchen in the morning – the nearest full moon is on Wednesday. Wednesday is in _six days_. Harry doesn't feel up to it, and he isn't ready in the slightest. 

He reads on. The words _pain_ and _full transformation_ and _superficial wounds_ swim and blur into one in his vision. _Possible danger to animals and people alike_. _Unpredictable. It is recommended to seek advice from experienced werewolves._

 __Harry knows that surviving and waking up with the knowledge that he hasn't hurt anyone is the single biggest challenge standing in front of him right now. The book tells him to keep calm and think positively, then turns around and orders him to lock himself up somewhere secluded. There are recommendations for the best metal to use for _cuffs and chains_. 

It ends with a few notes of encouragement, throwaway words about the full moon having little to no effect on mature werewolves, but things like that seem like the far-away future, impossible to reach. 

Harry closes the book, shoves it on the bedside table with the others and brings his hands up to his temples, desperately digging his fingers into his hair. He lets out a low sound, a guttural whine he's never heard himself make before.

Desperation and fear are clogging his thoughts, painting his vision black, and he so desperately wants to run to his mum, clutch her skirt and cry like he did when he was a little boy.

He sinks a little deeper into the bed, pulling the corner of his blanket up to wipe his face. He can't even count how many times he's been near tears in just the last twenty-four hours, and he hates feeling like this. His emotions are on a roller-coaster – one minute he's up, feeling the thrill of the unexplored, the power, new smells hitting his nose at every corner and blood pounding in his ears; the next, he's lying curled up into a ball, hugging his knees and trying to breathe through the panic constricting his lungs. 

For a moment, he wishes he could just get the full moon over with. He'll know for sure, after that – whether his entire life has been thrown away on an October morning on a street in Holmes Chapel, whether he'll have to go into hiding and become that monster children whisper about. 

Slowly, even through the nightmare visions of himself with red eyes and blood on his hands, Harry sinks into a restless sleep.

*

Three hours later, he's sat in the kitchen with a mug of tea that's too hot to drink and a plate of cheese toasties he doesn't feel like eating. His mum had come to wake him up and found him hidden completely under the covers, still in his clothes, tossing and turning through the nightmare he'd been having (himself, alone in the forest, chasing a herd of deer turned into a group of children turned into Liam, Zayn, Niall and Louis, the smell of blood surrounding them all). The worry lines in her face have gotten deeper which, unsurprisingly, makes Harry feel like absolute shit. She'd headed off to bed still frowning, telling Harry to sleep some more and promising to move game night to tomorrow.

It's dark in the house now, every light shut off, everyone asleep. Harry, perched on his chair in the kitchen, sees everything in razor-sharp detail. As intrusive as he feels, he strains his ears to hear the sounds of his family's soft breathing upstairs, a source of calm and assurance that they're alive and nothing bad's happened. 

Despite himself, Harry now has the small red book propped up on his mug in front of him. He's hesitant to open the cover, the colour of the desks still evoking a memory of blood he'd never shed. It’s the small, silvery etching on the front of the book that convinces him. 

Right on the first page, the title is printed in big block letters. _Mates_ , it says, a _Guide for Werewolves and Their Lovers_. Harry is equal parts appalled and confused, but the further he reads, the more he understands Liam's blush as he was handing the book to him. The beginning chapters are innocent enough, talking about helping your partner understand that being a werewolf is not a Terrible Thing, but it keeps getting increasingly graphic. At a section of the book called _Knotting – myth or fact?_ Harry stares at the complicated drawings until his eyes water with the focus, turns his head every which way, but—well. When he gets to the end and finds out that it is, in fact, a myth, he doesn't think he's ever felt bigger relief. 

It's not like Harry would even know how regular sex works, at least not the kind of sex he would like to be having. He doesn't understand why Liam would give this book to someone like him, so obviously and painfully awkward and out of his depth - especially so now, with the wolfiness and all. 

On second thought, Harry does tend to get very flirty when he feels comfortable with someone, but he's not so great on the follow-through. He's horrible on dates, falling all over himself to please whoever he's out with, and he's even worse at anything that goes beyond.

Harry is not a virgin, is the thing, he _is not_. He's had sex plenty of times, with long-term girlfriends and random strangers alike, but he's never liked it all that much, never felt comfortable letting go and enjoying it himself, instead of just trying to make it enjoyable for the other person. He doesn't like to talk about it much. It's a bit embarrassing, really, which is why, having just started his second year of uni, he has yet to end up in somebody else's bed but his own, with somebody that's not Ed, high as a kite. 

As he reads a little more, nibbling on his toasties to have something other than werewolf sex to focus on, he doesn't find out much. It's somewhat disappointing to realise that being a werewolf won't actually make him any better in the art of lovemaking, but. He'll take what he can get. 

The last few pages, true to the actual title of the book, are dedicated to mates. That's something that Harry, foolish as he is, is actually interested in, and he decides to leave it for when his thoughts are less all over the place. 

He watches the headlights of the passing cars paint blurry pictures on the kitchen wall, comforted by the stillness of the house, happy to be alone again, left with just his newly-hatched demons. 

When Harry runs his eyes over the dirty glasses lined up by the sink to be washed, he vaguely remembers promising his mum wine. Even though all he's wanted just a few hours ago was the warmth of his house, being outside in the crisp air for a while sounds nice, too.

Harry stands up, puts on his boots, and heads to Tesco’s. It’s four miles one way, but if there’s something he can use, it’s time to think.

*

Being back at uni is less surreal than Harry had thought it would be. The campus hasn't changed a bit during the week he'd been away, overpriced coffeehouses and the printer shop that's been shut down months ago welcoming him back like he'd never left. The leaves on the trees are more sparse now, yellowing and falling to the ground, covering the paths Harry has walked hundreds of times.

When he enters their flat, he's immediately hit with the smell of weed, stronger than he’s ever smelled before. Ed's leaning out of the kitchen window, talking to somebody a floor down, lazily dragging on a spliff. He waves to Harry when he sees him walk to his room. Harry waves back. They've never used all that many words to communicate, really, him and Ed – that's what's always been great about their friendship.

Harry's room is just the same, too. H doesn't know why he keeps expecting everything to be different, to find his room messed up like a small tornado has torn through it, emulating what's happened to Harry's life. He can't believe it's really only been a week since he's left the student life behind for some quality family time, and that tomorrow, his eight o'clock lecture is waiting for him bright and early. That life goes on as usual; and that Wednesday is getting closer. He tries hard to not think about it, and walks to the kitchen to survey the contents of his shelf in the fridge instead. 

On Monday, he gets up and goes to school; sits through two hours of Sociological Theory, goes to the shops, buys some groceries, calls mum, calls Gemma, and reads another one of Liam's books cover to cover. He barely eats and declines George's invitation for a few pints at the pub later that night. 

The apprehension is filling him up like a solid, like the air he breathes is turning into stones that drop into his stomach and weigh him down. The moon shines down on him calmly, cool and distant. 

If Harry could, he'd reach up and pluck it from the sky.

*

When Wednesday actually dawns and Harry wakes up at four in the morning, he knows it's going to be bad. He can feel it down to the marrow of his bones, the tired ache that's settled there. When he gets up and pads miserably to the shower, his joints ache so badly he hisses with every step, and the hot water does nothing to relieve the pain. He almost cries as he shampoos his hair and soaps himself up, skin itching like it wants to strip itself from him.

Nobody's awake yet, the flat dark and quiet even to Harry's heightened senses as he limps to the kitchen and makes himself tea. The kettle is so loud it rattles Harry's bones, the clinking of mugs in the cupboard sounding off like gongs in his head. The tea is too strong, the low light he's turned on too bright, and the cigarette ashes in the ashtray irritate his nose so badly he starts sneezing and doesn't stop. 

When he goes back to bed, stomach rolling, he knows he won't go back to sleep, but he makes the effort. Covered with a blanket up to his chin, the room is almost unbearably hot, pulsing all around him, but it makes him feel a little safer; far away from the kind of monsters he can ward off. 

After seven, he listens to the flat waking up behind his door. Ed and Jesy are yelling at each other over coffee, just like they always do, and Perrie's banging around the kitchen, probably trying to make breakfast for everyone. That's usually Harry's job, and he feels bad for not being up to see them all and wish them a good day, even though his first class of the day is not due to start for another two hours.

At eight, the door closes for the last time, and Harry is alone. It's a weight off his shoulders, to know that if he were to go crazy now, nobody will be in until late afternoon. It's so many less people he could hurt. 

At half past nine, Harry gives up. His State and Society lecture is already well underway – he bets that if he strained his ears a little, he could hear the professor’s voice in the next building right through the wall, senses on edge as they are. He gets up eventually, hoping that some of the pain has gone away from five hours of lying and senselessly staring at the ceiling, but the first few steps prove him wrong. His limbs feel like they're on fire, burning heat licking up the insides of his forearms, trickling down the backs of his thighs. Harry clenches his teeth to keep from screaming, pushes himself to go to the bathroom and take another shower. His skin stings, itches, but it distracts from the pain that’s settled deeper inside. 

Afterwards, he drags himself to the kitchen, sits at the table and hisses when the cool wood of the chair connects with his legs. The hands on the clock are moving at a snail's pace, ticking down to moonrise slowly enough to make Harry want to tear his hair out. It's an elaborate form of torture, everything in him burning up, intensifying slowly and deliberately. 

He's been near tears since the early morning, eyes pulsing with the temperature that's been steadily climbing higher. He lets them leak out, finally, heaving a dry sob as he drops his head to the table. The shiny tabletop cools him for a little while, slowing down his racing thoughts, lending him a moment of rationality. 

He can't do this alone; he _can't_. He'd been so determined to wake up early, to continue his fruitless search for somewhere to go. He'd wanted to go out and chain himself up, as terrified as it made him, to just _do it_ , get through his first full moon and prove to himself that he could, that nothing was lost. 

He'd failed, and he isn't surprised. 

Groaning, he gets up. He throws on a jumper and an old pair of trackies, half-heartedly gathers his phone and keys and wallet and leaves with a long glance back, just in case he never sees the flat again. 

Outside, the sky is grey and bleak, promising rain. Harry tries to find his own way first, gets on a bus to Euston and tries to navigate by memory, but his legs refuse to carry him. He slumps to the ground in a back alley, hood pulled down low over his face. A dozen passersby accidentally kick him. None of them apologises.

Defeated, Harry calls a cab. The driver looks at him suspiciously, doesn't miss Harry flinching as waves of pain wash over him when he folds himself into the front seat. Harry's not sure he knows where he's going - he gives the directions as they go, watches the numbers on the meter go up as he fights feeling like a criminal in a spy film. The radio is playing elevator music and the cabbie doesn't try to make conversation as they're wont to do. Just this once, Harry wishes he had something, anything, to distract him.

Finally, when the traffic around them thins out and Harry thinks they've probably gone in the wrong direction, a familiar forest of bare branches rises just outside the window. It looks like any other grouping of trees outside the city, and he could be completely wrong. He pays his fare and gets out anyway. 

As soon as the tangled shadows fall on him, Harry knows, _feels_ that he's in the right place. He's barely dragging his feet, sweat beading on his forehead and running down his temples. He doesn't have a slightest idea where to go—there are no signs, no marks painted on the trees, no traces of the path Liam drove them down last week. He thinks he could howl now, maybe, but his lungs collapse with a cough as soon as he breathes in. Smell is his only option now, and for a moment, he's absolutely frozen in fear. He shouldn't have come out here, not like this, completely lost. What if he can't find them, _what if he's still stuck in place by the time the Moon goes up_.

He tries to focus all his energy, everything he has, into remembering the scent of the house, of the people in it. He's trying to catch traces of it in the air, low at the ground, leaning against tree barks. It's instinctual, the way he shifts into a hunter, the way he goes after prey; like his very survival depends on it. 

Maybe it does. 

He barely registers walking forward, slumping on all fours to get closer to the forest floor. The flaring, burning _red_ inside him expands all the way to his fingertips, the wolf taking over, taking the pain away. Harry can tell that this is what the wolf wants from him; to be free, to reign over his body, to not be contained and suppressed; to be an animal. He refuses to let it. 

He's focused on helping himself, getting himself somewhere that the human side of him has ties to, somewhere he can be sure _Harry_ won't be lost forever. 

He flows along the ground like a river, swift and liquid, running like water in a rush to get to the sea. His control slips every few seconds, but in those brief moments in between, he feels in control in a way that's completely intoxicating. The world is in the palm of his hand like this. 

Finally, _finally_ , as he pushes off his hands and gains speed, he catches a scent that is unmistakably Zayn. Harry hadn't focused on trying to take their scent in for the few hours he was staying with them, but it rings familiar inside him, like the stroke of a well-played chord. He follows the trail as well as he can, the scent getting stronger, then weaker, then overwhelming him completely when it's joined by Louis's. His surroundings seem more familiar, now, something in the tilt of the trees that seems to show him the way. He's completely exhausted, doesn't even know how much land he's covered, how much time has passed, and when he shifts back to his human form, pushing at the wolf until it surrenders control, his knees buckle. He catches himself on a tree, just in time, and walks on determined. 

When he actually does see the house, his heart soars, throat closing up in disbelief. He's made it here, in the end, and he finally allows himself a little hope that everything will be alright. The windows shine like a lighthouse by the shore of a dark sea; the last few steps to the door are easy as breathing. Finally, he knocks and leans against the door frame, the muscles of his shoulder twinging. He feels a little lightheaded, weary and weighed down, eyelids falling shut of their own volition. He can feel sweat drip down his back uncomfortably, doing nothing to cool the radiating heat of his skin. 

"Harry," the door opens, Zayn's arms already reaching out to catch him when he inevitably trips over the threshold. "Wow, mate, you look rough." 

Harry coughs, weak breaths that do nothing to make him feel like he isn't drowning. "Yeah." 

"Louis!" Zayn shouts, just as Liam comes jogging in to lend another pair of hands. Harry feels him grip his shoulders firmly, overwhelmed at the comfort a touch brings him, a touch from somebody who _knows_ and still doesn't hesitate. He lets the tension and the pain leave him little by little and closes his eyes.

"Hey, hey, you're okay," Zayn's hands are soothing on his face, cool fingers on flushed cheeks. 

"M'not sure, actually," Harry chuckles drily. 

"Wh—ah. Shit." 

Harry recognises him immediately. Even as exhausted as he is, his heart lurches.

"Hey, Louis," he says. 

"Hey, Harry," says Louis, in that gentle voice, the same one he'd let slip with Harry that very first night. It's nothing but softness, a rasp that's like honey to Harry's ears. "Come on, let's get you lying down." 

They stumble in the direction of what Harry vaguely remembers to be the living room. There is a sofa there, soft like a cloud when two pairs of hands lay Harry down on it. He feels a touch on his forehead, gentle fingertips. Taking his temperature, probably. 

"Holy shit," somebody says. Harry thinks it might be Louis. ”Wow." 

Harry is not quite lucid for the next part. They open the window and smother the flames in the fireplace, bring Harry a cool, wet towel to put on the back of his neck, and Liam sits him up to get him to drink some tea. He lets himself be moved around like a doll, relaxed after days of being on pins and needles. Even the pain that's been fighting its way to the surface calms a little, nothing more than a gentle crash of waves against shore. He feels Zayn come and sit down on the floor next to him. His smell is achingly familiar now, the one thread that connected him to this place and kept him going. 

Harry smiles. 

"Good Zayn," his mouth is saying suddenly, without any prompting from his brain whatsoever, "I like Zayn." 

"I like you too, mate," Zayn chuckles, laying a hand on Harry's arm. 

Harry's tongue feels heavy in his mouth. "Did you give me drugsss? You shouldn't do that."

"You should get some sleep," answers Zayn, expertly avoiding his question. Harry hardly notices. "It's gonna be a rough night." 

Harry sees nothing wrong with that plan. Sleep sounds absolutely wonderful right about now. 

"A'right. Night, Zaynie," he murmurs, stretching.

Within seconds, he's out like a light.

*

"You drugged me."

"I did no such thing." 

"You slipped something in the tea you had me drink. Don't lie to me, _Liam_." 

Louis snorts from where he's perched on the window seat. Zayn chuckles, too, and Liam sends them both glares that could potentially wither flowers. 

They've all ended up in the kitchen again, somehow - Harry had been positively ravenous after sleeping for three hours. He is most definitely fucking up his sleep pattern, but all he cares about is the ham sandwich currently dropping crumbs into his lap. 

"It was plain tea, Harry." 

"It does say _Calming_ on the box," Louis quips, evidently amused. Harry resists the urge to throw a napkin at him, simply because it's Louis, and Harry can't for the life of him figure him out. And because napkins don't generally fly far when thrown. 

"And he did call me _Zaynie_ ," Zayn reminds everyone helpfully, for the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. Harry hates him a lot. 

"Honestly, Harry," Liam starts again, bringing the puppy eyes out full-force. "It's just herbs. You may have gotten a bit high off of them, it could be a werewolf thing." 

" _Or_ you could have drugged me." 

"You're not letting this go, are you." 

"No?"

Louis sighs. "I put a drop of lavender in it, for the love of _God_. It was me."

Harry frowns. "Lavender?"

"Helps you sleep," Louis says amicably, hopping down to refill his mug with tea. "It actually is a werewolf thing." 

Just as Harry is about to respond with something very rude, his shoulder cramps so tightly he forgets to breathe. Automatically, he looks outside.

The sky is glowing a faint orange. Harry knows the moon is supposed to be up just before five, but he'd been hoping that it would only have effect on them after it turns visible. 

"Oh," Liam breathes, "already?" 

"My joints are feeling a bit creaky," Zayn assesses, turning his arm every which way. Another muscle twitches violently in Harry's leg. 

"Do you guys have somewhere I could go?" he asks. He could probably hold on for a few more hours and ignore the occasional pain, but there’s no harm in locking himself up early.

"You don't have to, Harry," Liam turns to him. "Between the three of us, we can keep you out of trouble." 

"No. I want to—do you have a place or not?" 

"Sure," Zayn lays a calming hand on his shoulder. "We have a basement, you'll be fine there, but it's a lot more painful if you're contained like that. You sure you don't want—" 

"I'm sure," Harry says. "Can you show me where to go?"

Wordlessly, Zayn and Liam stand up, leading him out of the kitchen. They open one of the doors Harry hasn't been through, right at the end of the hall. Cold air rises towards them as they climb down a set of damp, slippery stone steps, making the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand up. The walls are made of the same ice-cold stone, providing no leverage where he's desperately trying to catch on and not break his neck falling down into the darkness. 

Once the floor evens out, Harry focuses on cranking up his eyesight, everything around him bathed in shadow. He can see a single door on the other end of the small, square room, and a rickety table propped up against the wall. Everything else is bare stone. 

"Wow." 

Zayn laughs. "Yeah, it's not exactly the Hilton. Through here, come on." 

Behind the door is one more room, slightly bigger. It makes Harry feel uneasy with how much it resembles a cell—a small barred window near the ceiling and a pile of rusty chains in one corner. The walls emanate cold, and Harry shakes. There is a dull, throbbing pain in his right calf, reminding him that soon, it will be time. 

"Harry. Are you sure about this?" Liam is looking around, gaze travelling over the neatly-laid stones in something like disapproval. 

Harry realises, for once since this whole circus has started, that he absolutely, definitely is sure. This is the one thing that he can do to prove himself to himself. 

"Yes. Just. Tell me if there's something special I need to do."

He barely notices Zayn's arm snaking around his shoulders. He feels the warmth emanating off the other werewolf, so intense it warms Harry down to his bones, calms his racing heart. "There's chains, but you really, really don't need those. You should leave your clothes outside, though." 

Harry nods. "Are you gonna lock me in?" 

"We don't—" 

"Does the door have a lock?"

Liam's shoulders slump; his eyebrows furrow. "Yes." 

"Good. Please lock it, yeah?" 

Liam and Zayn watch Harry mutely as he goes about stripping out of his clothes. He's slow at it, the movements of his muscles reluctant. He's lost his modesty ages ago, really, he doesn't care about them seeing him naked; it's the desire to stay warm that makes him want to hold on to his baggy trackies and thick jumper. 

He gets his necklaces off, too, folding them carefully into a pocket so they don't get lost. He dumps it all on the table in the first room, not bothering with folding anything. Liam and Zayn avert their gazes politely when he walks back in. It makes Harry smile a little. 

As soon as he sits down in the corner opposite the chains – just in case – he feels his skin stick to the stone, spikes of icy cold latching onto his skin. He feels it in his joints and muscles, too, imagines himself covered in ice crystals from head to toe. His teeth start chattering within seconds, quivering arms wrapping around bony knees to preserve some warmth. 

"I don't want to leave you like this," Liam says, miserably. Harry tries to grin at him, but it comes out a grimace. 

"I'll be f-fine." 

"Whatever you say." 

He steps out of the room then and comes back with a tattered piece of cloth. Once upon a time, it may have been a blanket. Despite Harry's protests, Liam wraps it around his shoulders, tucks it against the wall behind Harry's back and into the crooks of his arms. "I promise you can totally tear this apart." 

Harry nods, closing his eyes. He has a headache coming on, slowly but surely. Bizarrely, he remembers something looking into Liam's solemn eyes. 

"I d-didn't bring you b-books back. 'M s-sorry," he says, teeth chattering. 

"No worries, " Zayn answers him, "You can bring them back whenever." 

It's another invitation, another welcome extended to him, and Harry wants to cry a little with how grateful he is. He doesn't have the time or the ability to voice any of his thanks right now, though. 

Liam and Zayn leave him, with pats on the shoulder and sincere whispers of "good luck" and a "see you in the morning". Harry focuses on listening to them fumble behind the closed door and doesn't settle until he hears the heavy click of the lock. 

Alright, then.

*

It’s two hours later that Harry realises he’s most definitely not alright. The sun has set now, the sky outside an inky blue, the dark impenetrable. The features of the room sink into shadow more and more with every minute that passes, and Harry feels like he's drowning in the darkness, like he's floating in negative space and nothing around him is real.

He's shivering from both pain and cold now, fingernails digging half-moons into the skin of his calves. From time to time, his entire body cramps, making tears spring into his eyes out of their own volition. His skin is so cold he can barely feel where the tattered blanket is touching his shoulders, fingers gone numb where they're curled around Harry's legs. 

When the moon finally comes out properly, glowing so bright in the sky it even shines down on Harry's miserable form, he feels it down to his bones. They shift, somehow, creak and hurt and move restlessly underneath his skin. The sound of his blood overwhelms him once again, heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage. He doesn't remember any of what he's feeling from his first transformation; those sensations have been almost pleasant in comparison, soft tingling on his skin and a whole new world opening in front of him. Now, his skin burns and itches so bad he wants to let his claws come out, rip and tear until it's all gone.

Breathing deeply, Harry rests his head against the wall. He's rocking back and forth slightly, his body's unconscious reaction to the onslaught of pain. He's holding on to himself with everything he has, refusing to let the wolf take over before he absolutely has to. Maybe that's what's tearing him apart, bit by bit. He doesn't care. 

It's building every minute, the pressure inside him, like he's too big for his own skin. He's growling quietly, making sounds almost like the purring of some bizarre, gigantic cat. It makes him angry, hearing it, so angry. 

He's not sure where it's coming from, anymore; surely he wouldn't torture himself like this? 

He snaps at nothing with his teeth, long and sharp as they collide with the frigid air. He can feel his claws growing in, too, sinking deeper and deeper into flesh. He doesn't pull his hands away, instead focuses on the pain, on how it grounds him, tethers him, pleases him. 

He's so, so alone down here. He's sent them all away, told them to leave him alone – why had he done that? What had been the point? 

He's so alone, so alone wherever he goes. He doesn't even have a pack, does he, doesn't have an Alpha because his Alpha didn't want him. All he has are three strangers, kind, kind strangers that want to help him but what if they're not enough or what if they're too much what if he kills them what if—

Harry blinks, face sweaty, breathing ragged. He's having trouble forming coherent thoughts, thoughts that don't revolve around _prey_ or _hunting_ or _pack_. His claws are still extended, long and pale and so utterly inhuman. He knows that, if he looked in a mirror, his eyes would be yellow. 

He doesn't quite know why he does it – it's not him as Harry and it's not him as the wolf. It's some intrinsic need, something deep in his gut that's settled there and won't leave, and he's becoming too exhausted to resist. Calmly, evenly, he raises his head, straightens his neck, and howls. 

The sound reverberates inside his skull, every ounce the terrifying howl of a wolf in a Grimm fairytale, just before the pack moves in and tears a man to the ground. He howls and howls, and thinks he can recognise something human in the sound; he pours the pain, the cold, the exhaustion all in it, and strangely, it helps. 

Harry howls again. The wolf's come closer now, right there in his subconscious, ready to break out and claw its way through the stone wall of the basement. It amazes him, the fact that something so raw, so wild, so genuine can come out of his mouth. He howls for long seconds, screaming his throat raw with everything that he couldn't possibly say. 

He howls for his mum, and how much it hurts, keeping this from her. He howls for Liam and Zayn and Niall and even Louis, howls all his words of thank you, his goodbye before he becomes something beyond his control. He howls for himself; for the life he had, for the whole other life he'll lead if he survives tonight. 

He barely hears the door slide open, lost as he is. All he sees in his mind's eye is the moon, round and ominous, luring him outside, to run free through the forest and chase the wind. It's freedom that the wolf craves. Harry thinks he understands, but, vindictively, he's glad he'd insisted on staying locked up. He wants to turn against the wolf, in the corner of his mind that he doesn't like visiting. He wants to smoke it out, choke it and make it feel trapped, make it _leave_. It's not possible, and he does know that. 

He just hurts, hurts everywhere, so badly. He wants to sleep, to sink, to die. 

"Harry," somebody says, suddenly. He knows the voice, of course he does. 

Small hands touch his face and card through his hair, so lovely and soothing. Harry leans into them and opens his eyes. 

"Hey, love, hey," Louis is saying. "You have to stop. You have to let it go." His own eyes are blazing blue fire, canines long and sharp, claws almost elegant as he runs his hands down Harry's wrists and intertwines their fingers.

This is unusual, Harry thinks sluggishly, but he doesn't have the presence of mind to figure out why. All he knows is that Louis's touch grounds him, brings him back from wherever his mind has gone off to. Yet, he's still slow, unfocused, floating; he wants to sleep. He squeezes Louis's hand.

"Just let the wolf take over for a bit, come on. It's hurting you." 

Louis has a nice voice, Harry observes. He thinks it would be nice if he sung Harry a lullaby. He's scared, still, scared that this is the last he'll see of the world through human eyes. _The wolf's power is unpredictable_ , Liam's books have said. 

A tremor shakes Harry's chest, pain cutting out his thoughts.

"Come on, sweetheart, I've got you, I promise I've got you. Stop fighting, please stop," Louis is saying. His voice is high and breathy and shaking a little, lacking his usual composure. Maybe it's got something to do with how Harry feels like something is ripping him apart at the seams. 

"The d—door," he manages to choke out. His vision is a little blurry, but he does see Louis look back over his shoulder and oh, there's Liam, looking wholly human, standing with his hand on the door handle. 

Eyes determined, Louis seems to have come to a decision. There's an air of authority about him as he turns to Liam. Even Harry's wolf perks up in attention, stops trying to claw its way out of his mind for a second. 

"Close it," Louis says. Liam looks like he's going to argue, but no words actually pass his lips. With a flash of bright yellow eyes, he's gone, turning the key behind him.

"There. Just you and me now, Pup," Louis turns back to Harry, still exuding that invisible authority but softer, somehow. His eyes are kind. Louis might be the kindest person Harry's ever met. "How about we shift at the same time? Make it a competition for prettier fur. Have a little fun."

Harry smiles, a little, he thinks. He feels himself slipping, knows he's going to let go. Having Louis here makes him feel safe, protected, almost. Nothing bad can happen, right?

“No, it can't," Louis shakes his head. Harry hadn't realised he'd spoken out loud. "I'm here with you, and I'm awesome. There are two more werewolves in this house. You're the safest you can be."

Harry nods and closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall. He's right, he tells himself, Louis is right. 

"Okay." 

"Okay," Louis smiles, taking Harry's second hand in his own, all their fingers intertwined like poison ivy leaves. "Let's do it."

Harry breathes out and clenches Louis's hands tight. He focuses on the tension he's holding in every tendon of his being and letting it out like he's letting out air. It doesn't take long at all; his skin starts itching again, bones rattling and moving and feeling hollow. Strangely enough, he doesn't feel any pain. 

"There you go, love, you're doing so well," Louis is murmuring to him, quiet and faraway. Harry gives in. 

Louis's hands fall away when Harry's fingers shorten. Short stubs covered in fur grow in their place, sharp claws glistening on the tips like gems. His shoulder blades seem to jump around a little, going up towards where his neck should be, and when he hangs his head, he sees his knees turning inside out. 

His vision shifts into monochromes, and he can see fur everywhere on him, now, deep browns and pale greys blending into one. The corners of the room are dark, damp on his paws, but he leaps from one to another for a while, just because he can, just because he feels so inexplicably, suddenly _free_. He stops thinking, gradually, worries and apprehension falling away, and focuses instead on putting his nose low to the ground and sniffing everything, because there's so much to discover. He thinks he can hear a mouse scuttle by him, but he misses when he jumps after it, paws sliding as he falls on his side. 

A bark distracts him from where he's grumpily licking at his paw. On the other side of the room, a pale wolf is sitting, very familiar, but Harry doesn't quite know where from. The slump of his back is calling Harry to _play play play_ , and who is he to deny strange wolves with blue eyes. 

They tousle and chase each other, claws clicking on stone. The wolf catches Harry by the nape, makes him submit a few too many times, but Harry doesn't mind, doesn't feel the low vibe of _hostility_ or _anger_ or _pain_ he maybe should when somebody strange is trying to be his Alpha. 

They pull on a chain that one of them dislodges from the scary pile in the corner, dragging it around and enjoying making it rattle. It's carefree, and comfortable, and wonderful and safe. Harry can smell the animals outside in the forest, the humans beyond, and all he wants is to invite them to play as well, look at this strange friend of his, who won't stop jumping around like he's been stung by a bee. Harry, the wolf, had been yearning for freedom, but he doesn't understand now, how a forest full of trees could ever be better than this.

After a while, Harry gets bored with being chased, and turns around. Accidentally, he touches his nose to the other wolf's and makes him sneeze. Then they're off again, pulling on each other’s tails, nipping at the other’s heels playfully, an endless circle. 

The moon above them makes its way across the sky slowly, forgotten.

*

Harry wakes up warm, with a weight on his chest.

Once he blinks sleep out of his eyes, he almost doesn't recognise the miserable, small room he'd been locked into last night. The walls are flooded with sunlight, bright and orange, welcoming the new day. It glints off the damp stone and makes spots dance in front of Harry's eyes. 

First, he thinks that maybe he'd done something to himself, punctured a lung that hasn't quite healed, and that's why it's so hard to breathe. He turns his head around slowly.

Sprawled across his chest, paws haphazardly thrown on either side of Harry's body, is a familiar wolf. Harry remembers from last night, and he remembers from a week ago, blue eyes saying goodbye as Liam drove them into traffic. 

He doesn't know how, but Louis still looks like himself, even as a canine. His fur is a beautiful light grey, a colour Harry's never really seen, face wide and wise and just a bit mischievous. Harry takes one of his enormous paws in his hand. It's the size of a dessert plate, fur silky soft, long legs caging him in in a way that doesn't make it feel like he's trapped at all. Louis's tail flutters every time he breathes out, a warm, smelly breath that fans across Harry's chest to bathe him in warmth. Harry hasn't even remembered everything from last night yet, but it still makes his heart clench pleasantly, that Louis is here keeping him warm. The phantom touch of his teeth burns on the back of Harry's neck.

He's chasing memories of blue eyes turned on him, soft and reassuring, a fleeting feeling of a touch of hands, when he feels the wolf stir. Harry looks down, following a long, elegant snout to its wide face. He smiles. 

Louis wakes up slowly, adorably, looking every bit like a puppy. He snuffles, sneezes, bring up a paw to rub his face against, before he finally looks around. His eyes, even when they're not glowing, are blue, pale and otherworldly in the morning sun. 

"Hello," Harry says, and it occurs to him that, had Louis been in human form, the position they've woken up in would have been significantly more awkward; especially as Harry realises, just then, that he’s naked. The thought doesn't peeve him out as much as it should - one could even theoretically say it doesn't peeve him out at all, quite the opposite. 

Louis yawns, blowing morning wolf breath right in Harry's face, and if he could, he'd probably raise an unimpressed eyebrow. Then, he shimmies up Harry's body like a big, furry blanket, creating some mildly awkward friction, and licks his nose. His ears perk up, eyes alight with mischief and Harry likes him so much, like this. Although. That might be a bit of a weird thought, seeing as Louis currently weighs a good two hundred pounds and dons a full-body fur. 

"Um. I'm naked," Harry says, uselessly. Louis happily barks in his face. "Alright. Are we just lying here, then?" 

Louis barks again, setting his head down on Harry's collarbone. It's heavy, thick animal skull and all, but Harry doesn't even think about complaining. It's peaceful, really, waking up with Louis's wolfy body half on top of him. For once, nothing hurts, and nothing inside him feels like it's trying to pull him apart.

"Hey, Louis?" he breaks the silence. Louis huffs in acknowledgement. "I, er. Thank you." It comes out less sure than he means it to, but Louis apparently doesn't care when he's a wolf; he stretches his neck and rubs the side of his face against Harry's cheek. It chafes a little, but it's so soft, so affectionate, makes Harry feel so good. He considers turning back into a wolf, grabbing Louis by the ear and making him run away together just so he could get mornings like this. 

He's lost in his thoughts for a while, trying to make out every detail of how wolf Louis put wolf him on his back and weighed him down with heavy paws on his chest. He'd felt so free then, all parts of him, with nothing to hold at bay, nothing to cause him pain. 

Louis dozes off again, eyes rolling behind his eyelids, sparse lashes fluttering. After a few minutes of nothing but their even breathing, the heavy iron door creaks open.

"Lads?" Niall is asking, and really _, why_ is Niall always there when Harry is inconvenienced in some way and just waking up. 

"Morning," Harry croaks. Niall comes in and sniffs the air cautiously, chewing gum like a herd of cows. Strangely enough, as soon as he steps foot into the room, the light painting the walls seems to become just a little bit brighter. 

"How's it goin'?" He laughs when he spots them on the floor, coming over and kicking Louis's tail gently with his foot. He appears to be wearing grandpa slippers.

Too late, Harry remembers that, despite being mostly covered in wolf, his dick is still very much enjoying the slight draft in the room. He makes an aborted attempt to cover himself up, but then realises he doesn't want to wake Louis. He'll survive. 

Niall, of course, immediately catches on to his efforts and cackles. Louis twitches on Harry's chest and his breathing changes as he wakes up.

"Shut up," Harry hisses in vain. Niall reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a squished granola bar and offers it up to Harry. 

Harry can't even remember what the last thing he'd eaten was, besides Liam's wretched drugged tea. He grabs the bar and tears the wrapper off happily, sighing in pleasure when syrup-drenched oats touch his tongue. Louis makes a noise that sounds like a canine snort and finally stands on all fours, shaking himself off. He nudges Niall's knee with his snout, which Harry immediately interprets as a greeting. Niall beams down at Louis's big, furry head and scratches him behind one ear. 

"How was the night, then?" Niall steps out of the room, voice echoing underneath the high ceiling, then returns with a pile of Harry's clothes. Harry takes it from him gratefully and starts a fight with his boxers. Beside him, Louis is quietly picking apart a neat chimney of what seem to be his own clothes folded in the corner. With a strange, swishy sound, the warm fur against Harry's side disappears, replaced by Louis's flushed skin.

"This idiot is the most docile wolf I've ever seen," Louis quips before he can even speak properly, tufts of fur still fading into his temples. "All he wanted to do was _play_ all fucking night." 

Niall leers. "What kind of play are we talking about, here?"

Harry glares at him, and Niall looks sufficiently intimidated. He's only a little proud.

"The kind where he wiggles his hairy arse in my face to get me to chase him," Louis quips as he battles his socks. He's not looking at Harry, but there's a little crease by the corner of his mouth, and Harry thinks that if Louis let himself, it could turn into a smile. 

Which is why, as he pulls his shirt over his head and shakes out his hair, he extends his leg and pokes Louis in the belly with a bare toe. Louis's offended face is absolutely hilarious, and the crinkles that explode around his eyes when he fails to hide a grin warm Harry's heart. Louis should be smiling always, he thinks, with a face like that.

"If you two are _done_ ," Niall says, a little too loud, "We made breakfast."

Louis raises an eyebrow. 

Niall sighs. "Zayn and I went to get muffins from Mickey D's. Whatever, same thing."

Louis nods. "Let's go, Pup,” he says to Harry, brushes off his trousers and stands up. 

Harry doesn't even blink, his body moving automatically to answer to the nickname. He's not sure when that happened. 

Niall leads the way out, shouting something at Liam, who's waiting upstairs. Harry's too content and warm and pleasantly morning-sluggish to try and eavesdrop. They struggle up the steps with a lot of huffing and puffing, muscles Harry didn't even know he had aching. It's a pleasant ache, though, much in the same way as being sore after he’s run five miles.

Liam is literally waiting _up stairs_ , watching them come closer with worried eyes. 

"All good, Payno," Louis shouts. Harry shoots Liam a thumbs-up.

As it turns out, the daylight is a bit much for Harry's eyes to handle. The house is bright and beautiful, vibrant and full of sparking energy, with windows thrown open to let in the morning breeze. Harry needs to lean against the wall and close his eyes for a bit, his world having shrunk to a dark, small room. When the bright spots in his vision finally disappear, Liam and Niall have gone and Louis is just closing the basement door behind him. The scent of egg and bacon is wafting in from the kitchen, curling around Harry's nose. Louis sniffs the air, too, and brushes past Harry to get closer.

"Nice fur, by the way," he murmurs as he passes. His hand sneaks to Harry's nape and squeezes.

*

The thing is, Harry had planned on going back to his hall after eating something and getting his strength back. Instead, he's sat in an armchair on the back porch, wrapped in an incredibly large blanket, with a mug of tea in hand. Down on the grass, Liam and Zayn are trying to garden.

"No, Li, look," Zayn points to a page in an old, wrinkled, soil-stained gardening handbook, "This is the one you're supposed to pull out. The thing you're holding is a wildflower." 

Liam looks at the miserable tuft of greenery in his hand, throwing it over his shoulder in a fit of infant rage. 

"I didn't know it was a wildflower. It’s _October_ , Zayn, there are no flowers.”

Zayn sighs and tugs his gloves on. He drops to his knees, pulls Liam to kneel by his side and starts showing him what to pull.

Harry hides a smile in the crook of his elbow. 

"That wasn't so bad then, was it?" Niall walks outside with sunglasses on. He surveys the various soft surfaces strewn around the porch – a garden swing, a sofa, a ratty beanbag – and plonks himself down on the floor right by Harry's feet, stealing a corner of his blanket. 

"What wasn't?" 

"All the, you know," Niall waves a hand towards the sky, "full moon business." 

"Oh." Harry bites his lip. It's an instinctual reaction for him to freeze and tense up just thinking about it, but the thing is, Niall's right. It hadn't been bad at all – in fact, it may have been the most pleasant part of Harry's entire werewolf extravaganza experience. "No, no it wasn't." 

"I knew it," Niall says smugly and takes his glasses off. "If I'd been here, I would've told you."

"Where were you?" 

"Home. Me dad says it's safer for me there on full moon nights, _just in case_ , so I usually sit there bored out of my fucking mind," he grimaces. 

Harry watches Zayn thwack Liam over the head with a tiny spade. "He's just worried about you, isn't he."

Niall grumbles. "Course he is. Doesn't mean he doesn't think my mates are monsters lusting after blood that lose control whenever the moon comes out."

"Does he hunt werewolves, too?" 

Niall looks up at him a little startled, like he doesn’t remember telling Harry. "Right. Yeah, he does. Old family tradition." 

"That's fascinating," Harry says honestly. 

"Meh. It's not as glamorous when you grow up being fed shit about how dangerous werewolves are and how you can tell them apart from _normal humans_ because they walk hunched over and look at everyone like they want to kill them. And then you turn around and find out that the only three people you know who don't secretly think you're weird all have a furry problem."

Harry blinks, clutching his mug tighter. ”What did you do?" 

Niall shrugs. "I made them show me. Asked 'em to shift in front of me, so they did, and then we played fetch all afternoon." 

Harry laughs at the visual. He can see it in his mind's eye, Niall sitting cross-legged on the grass like the boss of everything, three wolves dropping plastic balls and sticks and small dead animals at his feet. 

"Weren't you scared?" he asks. 

"Nah," Niall smiles, "Had my bow with me." 

Harry smiles at him softly, observing the way he's looking out into the garden. Zayn and Liam have started throwing handfuls of dirt at each other, and Niall is watching them with all the fondness in the world. 

"Still, that was brave," Harry says, poking Niall in the side with his foot. "You're a good friend." 

Niall's grin is blinding when he turns it to Harry, sparks alive in his eyes. "I know that, Harry Styles. I'm awesome." His voice is a little subdued, though, just this side of soft, and if Harry knew him better, he'd dare say Niall's touched, or something. 

"Anyway. What about yours?"

Harry frowns in question.

"Your mates. Told them yet?"

"Oh," Harry laughs, "no. _No_." 

"Why not?" 

"It's—I mean, it's a pretty ridiculous thing to tell someone over breakfast, you know? 'I got bitten by something on my way to the train station. I can turn into an animal now, and also if something happens and I go crazy I could kill you with my pinkie finger'." 

"They'd get used to it," Niall shrugs. 

"Yeah," Harry says a little sharply, taking a sip of his tea. It's only lukewarm now. "Or they'd have me locked up somewhere in a padded room. Werewolves are not an everyday reality for most people, Niall." 

"It's not that hard. You're still the same person, aren't ya? What the hell does all this matter to somebody who loves you?" 

Harry is a little amazed, if he's honest. He can't believe Niall is a person he found after he’d randomly wandered into a forest. "Am I the same, though?" 

Niall frowns now, turns around until he's looking up at Harry with eyes burning. "Yes, Harry, come on. You heard what Louis said, about what you were like last night. I've seen a transformation or two now, and the one thing they do better than anything is expose who you really are. It's always the angry and troubled people that go rogue and kill innocents. Some people resist the wolf so hard they break. You got through it perfectly fine, without a scratch. That's gotta tell you something." 

"I was resisting, too," Harry says contemplatively. "I could feel it trying to take over, but I wouldn't let it." 

"I heard," Niall says, "You were really loud." 

Harry hides his face in his knees. "Oh God." 

"Harry, listen. I like you, you seem like a perfectly alright lad to me, but you're a little thick. You didn't want to turn because you didn't want to hurt anyone, right? That's more than most new werewolves ever think about. It's all _me me me_ , what am I gonna do, how do I become a world-renowned doctor now. So do me a favour and don't put yourself down, you don't deserve it."

"But what if I'd held on? To staying in my human form, I mean. You said people break, would that have happened?" 

"Dunno, to be honest. Maybe. But you hadn't."

Harry shakes his head. "Louis came," he says, like that explains everything. To him, it sort of does.

"Good thing he did," Niall nods. "He's really good at werewolf things." 

A question has been in the forefront of Harry's mind for hours now, one he's itching to ask and know the answer to – how did Louis become a werewolf. Harry feels like the story there is very different from his own; there's something about Louis, the way he carries himself, the way everybody in the house seems to listen to him, _obey_ him, almost. 

He thinks Niall might tell him, if Harry really tried, but it doesn't feel right. He doesn't want to overstep boundaries, for one. He's still the outsider. He also doesn't want to pry just like that, all curious and insensitive and clambering to know everything like a big clumsy puppy. For some reason, Louis had decided to help him when he most needed help, and Harry's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Now, about your friends," Niall starts again. Harry groans. "No, hey. I know it's hard, but you need to take a little leap of faith. The sooner you do it, the better, or it's gonna start killing you."

Harry looks intently at his fingers, nails of one hand slowly picking apart the wicker frame of his armchair. "I'm not sure I have people I trust that much."

Sure, he does have Jonny, but they're not as close as they used to be. They burn bright when they’re together, parties and film night and popcorn fights, but then Harry goes back to London and Jonny drives to Sheffield and they lose contact for the next five months. 

He has Ed, too, and Ed's been an amazing friend to him for as long as they’ve known each other. But he's in his last year of uni, focused on his music and making it big, and Harry doesn't want to burden him any more. 

In an incredibly true imitation of a dog, Niall puts his chin on Harry's knee. "Well, you have us now. Until you figure out who you can trust, at least." 

Harry smiles shakily, looks into Niall’s scarily blue eyes, then out into the garden again. Zayn is sitting in the middle of an untouched patch of grass, reading his handbook, and next to him, Liam is building what looks like a crooked ant house out of dirt. From the inside, Louis shouts something at them, laughing loud and bright.

Harry grins and scratches Niall behind the ear. Maybe he’s not that much of an outsider, then.

*

Really, Harry thinks it's inevitable as he stands on the threshold and pushes the doorbell on Friday night, arms laden with pizza and drinks.

There's some sort of party at the campus bar, a happy hour sort of thing that lasts the entire night, and everyone Harry knows had invited him. He'd gone to check it out, too, all ready to start drinking at six and get trashed by eight and have a little fun, but the second he'd stepped foot in the pub, a blinding headache forced him right back out. It had been a sensory overload of the worst kind, loud music and flashing lights, the usual soft hum of conversation replaced by shouting, people trying to talk to each other over the pounding bass.

So he'd excused himself and put himself together and ordered pizza that has to last him until the end of the week if he wants to make rent. And he's here. And he can hear somebody walking up to the door. 

" _Harreh_!" Niall shouts, exaggerated and loud. The left side of his hair is sticking up in an impressive cowlick, but he looks bubbly and happy and excited. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" 

"Um," Harry says eloquently, and _honestly_ , he used to be the most popular boy in school once. "I brought pizza." 

"Yes you did," Niall beams, tugging the boxes out of Harry's arms. "Good boy." 

Harry shakes his head and takes the open door as an invitation to come in. 

"Hey, Harry," Zayn says, leaning over the armrest of the sofa to peer into the hallway. He's smiling, too, a relaxed air about him. 

"Harry!" Liam joins, walking in from the kitchen. 

"Liam," Harry grins back.

" _Harryyyyy_."

"Liam?" 

"Louis," Louis says, unimpressed as he walks by, huddled in a hoodie and barefoot. 

"I smelled you brought pizza," Liam says as he leans against the wall, the only one willing to wait while Harry takes off his shoes. 

"Niall's got it."

"Naturally. How did you know?" he asks, finally noticing the bottle of Coke Harry is trying to dislodge from under his arm and helping him get it out. 

"Know what?" Harry frowns, again, and promptly tells himself off.

"That it's film night, obviously!" 

And yeah, now that Harry's closed the door behind him and taken in his surroundings, he does detect a fading smell of popcorn and Doritos. "I didn't. Do you guys actually have _film nights_?" 

Liam snorts and waves Harry into the living room. Harry barely stops to think about the fact that none of them – _not even Louis_ , his brain adds – gave a second thought to him just showing up at their door. They took the gifts he came bearing and invited him in, and now it looks like they're letting him tag along to what seems like a household tradition. 

The living room is different to the last time Harry's seen it. The sofa is still there, but instead of a coffee table, what can only be described as a nest of blankets and pillows is sprawled all over the floor. Various empty bowls and packets are strewn all over, and Niall is currently performing an elaborate dance of stepping over them as he carries a pile of plates in. The armchairs are pushed closer to the sofa to close off a little half-circle. Louis is reclining in one of them, miming something that looks vaguely vulgar with a bit of stretchy pizza cheese.

It looks like absolute perfection, honestly; Harry is even reminded of home, of pillow forts and watching telly from behind the living room door with Gemma when they were both supposed to be long asleep. 

"Thank you for this, my good man," Louis nods to him, waving a slice of hawaiian in the air. Harry is only a little pleased at the fact that his favourite seems to be Louis’s, too.

"My pleasure," he grins in return, slowly coming closer. Zayn and Louis both look like blissed-out sloths, stretched out with long limbs and happy eyes, and Niall's just settled on the floor with his head in Liam's lap. Harry's not sure where to fit himself; on second thought, he's not even sure he's been invited. 

"Well get over here, we need to finish arguing about what film to put on," Niall says, reaching as far as he can and grabbing Harry by the wrist. He's sat down on the floor, has a blanket draped over his shoulders and a pizza slice in hand before he knows what's happening. 

Niall plops down right in front of him, DVD cases in hand, and everybody leans a little closer. "So," he says with an air of immense importance, "we've narrowed it down now. Will it be the running champion, Iron Man? Or will the arrival of a new member of the jury swing the vote in favour of the no good, horribly soppy Love Actually? _Or_ ," he takes a deep breath, "will justice finally prevail, and let us lay eyes upon the timeless classic that is The Godfather? The fate rests in your hands, young Harry," he looks at Harry seriously. 

To Harry's left, Liam is desperately trying to muffle his laughter in a pillow. Louis has started throwing pieces of a pizza box at Niall's head.

"Wait," Harry says, "who voted for Love Actually?" 

Save for Liam, who has now moved on to hysterical cry-laughing, there is a suspicious silence in the room. 

Then, "Why do you care?" asks Louis. 

Harry shrugs, studying the DVD cases in front of him. "Just asking. It's my favorite film," he says. Zayn snorts. Harry ignores him in favour of poking Niall in the chest. 

"You should just close your eyes and pick one.”

“Oh,” Niall says, then smiles, “that's—"

"You know,” Zayn interrupts, chewing lazily, "this might be more fun if we ever voted for something other than our favourites."

"The Notebook," Louis says, immediately. Harry's eyes shoot to him involuntarily, because _hey_ , that's another of his most beloved films. 

"Or our _other favorites_ , Lou," Zayn chastises fondly. "We should all pick one we haven't seen, or something." 

"Not one that Niall's watched already," Liam cuts in, "he spoils."

"I do no such thing!" 

"Yes you do," Liam protests, crossing his arms, "You were the one who told me Ellie was gonna die and Carl was going to become a depressed old man."

"That was eight minutes into the film," Louis says helpfully. Liam turns to glare in his direction. Harry is happily floating somewhere above the conversation, because _he's hanging out with people who watch Pixar unironically_. 

"We should watch Finding Nemo," he says thoughtfully, biting the back of his finger. It seems like a perfectly sound choice to him. Harry does love his animated films, and if he can find an opportunity to spread that love around, he'll get in there before his fellow film watchers can say "fuck off with that".

"Finding Nemo," Louis and Zayn say in unison. 

"Why?" Niall asks. 

"Oh," Liam beams. 

"Cause, I mean—it's a good film? It has fish? What else could you possibly want?" Harry asks, incredulous.

"Yes, I vote yes, can we watch Finding Nemo _please_ ," says Liam, regressing into what seems to be his five-year-old self. Niall gets up grudgingly, cradling the case with _The Godfather_ to his chest, and grumbling picks out a sea blue case instead; a testament to how hard it is to resist Liam's puppy eyes.

They have the film in the shelf. That's all Harry needs to know. 

Ninety minutes and two pee breaks later, Zayn and Harry are passing a packet of tissues with no shame. Louis looks like he's wiping his nose into the pizza he's still eating, and Niall is trying to cheer them all up by speaking along with the characters in his best whale voice. Liam, for his part, seems to be particularly enthusiastic about the turtles. 

"He can't just leave her there," Harry pouts when Marlin swims off, even though he's seen the film twenty-two times, and he knows that Marlin will. She'll be floating there in a pan-out shot, confused and sad and alone, miles away from home. Fucking clownfish. 

"It's okay," Niall pats him on the shoulder consolingly, "they make up." 

"See, you're doing it again!" Liam hisses. 

"It doesn't count as spoiling if you've already seen the film, Payno.”

Finally, Marlin hears Nemo calling to him through the torrent of fish. Harry is still sniffing, because it's a beautiful, emotional moment.

Well. It would've been.

"Hey," Louis says as the film transcends into the last ten minutes, leaning forward conspiratorially, "did you know that if one clownfish in a pair dies, one of its children will change sex and go on making babies with the other parent? Reckon that explains why he needs to find Nemo so badly." 

Harry glares at him with all the intensity of his ruined childhood. Niall chortles, reaches behind him underneath a sofa cushion and takes out a handful of stale popcorn to throw at Louis's head. 

"That's gross," Zayn says, without emotion. Harry wonders if it's because he's used to being around Louis, or because he secretly agrees. 

When the end credits roll, Harry refuses to move. He sprawls out, limbs everywhere like a starfish (haha, star _fish_ , ha), and closes his eyes. He's lost any energy to pretend to be orderly and polite sometime around Niall elbowing him in the dick when he was crawling to the loo. 

"Hey," Liam pokes a toe into Harry's hair. "Don't fall asleep yet."

"Motivate me," Harry grumbles. 

"We could always play truth or dare," Liam says contemplatively, like he's actually considering it, "or never have I ever." 

"Oh, I am not playing that with you lot," Niall says as he falls down right on top of Harry. Harry doesn't even mind. "Much as it pains me to admit it, being Irish has nothing on being one of you furry things." 

"Wait," Harry opens an eye, "we can't get drunk?" 

"We can," Liam hums, "it just takes a lot more booze, so we generally don't bother. We play drinking games with juice, and whoever has to go to the loo last is the winner."

Harry expects him to laugh and brush it off as a bad joke, but Liam keeps staring solemnly at his hands.

"You're serious," Harry groans. "Oh God."

"Sometimes they get me drunk and bet on what crazy shit I'll do," Niall offers, placating. 

"We don't do that anymore."

"Please, Payno." 

Just then, Zayn walks back in, smelling overwhelmingly like cigarettes. "I heard something about never have I ever," he says, conversationally. 

"You heard every word," Niall says. Zayn shrugs in response. 

"Do you honestly still play that? At—however old you are?" 

"Twenty," Zayn chuckles. "Well, Lou's twenty-two, but he doesn't like to be reminded."

"I heard that, Zaynie-poo," Louis sing-songs from the kitchen, "and I hate you." 

"Anyway," Zayn continues, ignoring the plastic fork that goes flying at him and misses, "yes, we do. It's fun. You actually learn new things about each other."

That's the story of how Harry ends up sprawled on his stomach in the living room, having the time of his life playing a ridiculous teenage game and drinking grape juice. He admits to stupid things like having sex with more than two people and kissing boys, and to serious things like stealing a fresh scone off the tray once, back when he worked at the bakery, because he'd been _hungry_. 

"Never have I ever," Zayn starts, jovial, "rescued a scorchingly handsome, freshly-bitten werewolf from a forest." 

Harry watches in fascination as Louis rolls his eyes, smirks and takes a drink. His Adam's apple bobs in quite a gorgeous way, and Harry catches himself staring a little too late. 

Well. At least he hadn't lied when he drank his entire mug at 'never have I ever found a man attractive’.

*

"Mum, listen. I really, really need you to tell me how to split wood."

Mum laughs into the phone. Harry doesn't find it funny. 

It's Sunday, almost a whole twenty-four hours since Harry had left after sleeping over, and he's in the house _alone_. It's absolutely terrifying, if he's honest with himself, all these empty rooms that could have supernatural creatures hiding in them, for all he knows.

It happened quite suddenly, the him being alone part. Zayn and Louis have gone out to run (they've actually just disappeared into the forest yelling something, but Harry's giving them the benefit of the doubt). Liam took his car to drive for groceries, and Niall's busy with some sort of family thing. Harry had been over, just wandering around and bumping into things, mostly, and nobody had minded him; in fact, Zayn and Liam both engaged him in friendly chitchat and helped him right whatever he'd dislodged. Then, all of a sudden, with a few murmurs of "you'll be fine on your own for a while, won't you?", he was alone.

Harry's still waiting for them to turn around and notice that oh, there's this kid that's wandered in and hasn't left yet, but now they apparently trust him to not burn their house to the ground or steal all of their shit. Harry doesn't quite know how to deal with that kind of niceness with no obvious ulterior motives. 

When he doesn't know how to deal with something, he cleans. 

Which brings him back to the conversation he'd been having with his mum. Wood. Right. 

"Baby, are you sure you should be doing things with an axe?" she giggles. 

" _Mum_."

"I don't know how to split wood," she says something to someone away from the phone, "Neither does Robin. What on earth would you need to do that for, anyway?" 

Right. Hadn't told her about his furry problem, or about the people who saved his life. He'd _almost_ forgotten.

"I'm at a friend's house and I'm trying to make a fire," he says, honestly. The empty fireplace is staring back at him, a little less depressingly sooty after he gave it a short scrub. He bets they don't even know that a dirty chimney can kill you. 

"In a fireplace, yeah?" 

"Obviously," Harry rolls his eyes. He gets up and walks to the back garden, right where he'd discovered a pile of wood and a friendly looking chopping block with an axe. 

"I don't know, maybe you should leave it to whoever lives there?" He doesn't miss the slight curious undertone, but decides to play dumb. 

"I'm just gonna try and, like, swing at it from the top," he muses aloud. 

"Harry, please be careful." 

"I will, Mum. Love you," he says and hangs up. 

The axe which, for some reason, is bright yellow, is staring at him with its handle stuck in the air provocatively. Harry grabs the widest log he can find, just in case he misses, and puts it on the block like a man on a mission. 

"Alright," he says under his breath, to no one in particular. Then, he raises the axe.

It's quite exhilarating, really, the thrill he gets from waving a heavy thing around and hitting other things with it. He lets the momentum of his swing carry the axe down and watches, fascinated, as it splits the small piece of wood right in two. It's not quite through the middle, but. Holy crap, he just did that. 

Full of ambition, he grabs another log, and another, and another. Soon, he has a nice little pile of perfectly acceptable split wood and aching arms, but he actually did it. He feels very, very accomplished.

He carries the wood inside in a wicker basket, loads the pieces into the fireplace like he'd seen people in films do – smaller on the sides, bigger towards the middle – and lights one of those gigantic matches on the fourth try. Soon enough, the small flame is spreading, licking up the rough tree bark. It looks _awesome_.

Satisfied, Harry puts the basket away and surveys his surroundings. He'd done pretty well, if he does say so himself – the entirety of the living room, kitchen and hall is dusted and vacuumed, sofa cushions fluffed up invitingly, dishes clean and put away, both porches swept clean of fallen leaves and dust. He'd polished the windows, cleaned the fireplace, wiped down the kitchen table and beat out the ratty 'welcome' mat. The crackling fire gives it all a nice, homey feeling that leaves Harry feeling happy and satisfied; he doesn't remember the last time he'd done something like this, certainly not for people he'd known for a little more than a week. Burning wood mixes in with the scent of cleaning product, and it's a lot more harmonious than Harry would have thought. 

He puts away all the cleaning supplies under the sink where he’d found them, and just then, as if sensing it's safe to come in and get mud all over the clean floor, Louis and Zayn come back in, all giggly with tousled hair. Their cheeks are red from the wind and the chill outside. Harry thinks he should've made tea.

"Harry!" Zayn shouts, accent strong, and hugs him like they're long-lost friends. Meanwhile, Louis is standing by the back door with a cute little scrunch to his nose, looking back and forth between the porch and the hall.

"Something's different," he announces, turning to Zayn. 

The thing is, Harry _has_ no idea what Louis's thing is. He's not on the receiving end of glares or twisted smirks anymore, even spots a small smile aimed in his direction sometimes, but the only time Louis will talk to him civilly is when he has all the other lads around. Harry had seen so many glimpses by now, slips in Louis's indifferent exterior, and he desperately wants to know how to get Louis to be like that around him – happy and carefree and bitingly sarcastic, but fond. Louis had called him love, called him _sweetheart_ at full moon, and it had tugged on Harry's chest in the best way; and they'd been so _great,_ so friendly to each other in the morning. Most of all, he wants to know what he's done, and he's very, very close to asking. As it is, he doesn't know how to fix it and really, he just wants. Harry wants to see Louis's eyes crinkle because of some silly joke he said. 

Anyways. He'll figure it out later, he will. Harry Styles is nothing if not determined.

Zayn looks around, eyes laughing. "Have you _cleaned_?" 

"Uh," Harry says. He's going to learn how to speak again, one of these days.

Louis crouches down, long fringe obscuring most of his face, and swipes a finger over the wood floor. It squeaks.

"Holy shit," he says. "It's clean." 

Harry thinks that Louis's fascination is a very sad testament to the state the house had been in. He hadn't really noticed before, grateful and fascinated and terrified as he was, but when he'd sat alone at the kitchen table, the mug stains started driving him mad immediately. 

"Yeah, um, I swiped a spot or two." 

"Oh my God," Zayn pokes his head into the living room, "is that the actual colour of the fireplace?" 

"Z, I can _see_ out of this window!" Louis shouts as he bounces on his tiptoes like a little boy. It's _adorable_ , and it hits Harry that much harder that he's standing right there and Louis won't even look his way. Maybe he could pretend to be a chair, so Louis would sit on him. 

"Harry, did you do the dishes?" 

"No, I put them away dirty," Harry quips in a rare moment of lame sarcasm. 

"That's awesome," Zayn says, honest. Honestly, why couldn't Harry's obsession with how pretty he is have continued after that first night? Zayn would be an awesome person to not-quite-crush on. "You didn't have to do that." 

"I know," Harry shrugs, "But I was alone and bored, so." 

"If this is what you do when you're left alone for two hours," Louis says, still not looking at Harry, but quite obviously addressing him. Harry's heart leaps. "I would _love_ to know what you could do with a whole day."

Harry is absolutely certain he doesn't imagine the flirty tone. Except he's a tongue-tied dumbass who cleans things for fun and wears tie-dye, so maybe he's not a very reliable source. 

"I have some free time, you can find out if you want," he bites his lip. Oh God.

Zayn snorts. He seems to do that a lot. Walking out of the kitchen, he comes closer to Harry and tugs on one end of the bandana he's tied around his head, pulling it teasingly like a cat. "And _what_ are you wearing?"

"It's a hairband," Harry pouts. "You know, to keep my hair out of my eyes while I was vacuuming in the dark corners where no one ever dares to go. Honestly, do you know how much shit was behind the sofa cushions?" Zayn raises an eyebrow, questioning. "Half a garbage bag of wolf hair, for starters." 

"Louis," Zayn groans. "I fucking told you not to go on the sofa." 

Seamlessly and gracefully, right in front of Harry's eyes, Louis turns into the now-familiar pale wolf. He barks at Zayn, leaps out the back door and disappears in the forest. 

"Excuse him, he's a dick," Zayn says to a transfixed Harry, grabbing his elbow and tugging gently to get him to come sit down on the sofa. "I could go for a cuppa. D'you want some?" 

"Yeah, two sugars and no milk, thanks," Harry nods absentmindedly, watching the flames dance and flicker. There's a prominent spot of soot that's clung on through Harry's scrubbing.

He listens to the kettle boil as Zayn putters around, opening cupboards and clinking mugs. The aroma of tea starts wafting in as soon as Zayn opens the box, and Harry revels in it, courtesy of his werewolf supersenses. 

Zayn turns on the telly after he hands Harry his mug, some would-be comedic show with a host Harry's never heard of. He spreads a giant blanket over both of them, shuffling over until he's so close it could easily be considered cuddling. Harry likes the warmth of his body, the long searing line of him along his side. Zayn is pretty great all-round, honestly, and he would probably be a great cuddler, too. 

They sit in silence for a while, listening to one shitty joke after another. Then, Zayn nudges him gently in the side. 

"Hey," he says, looking contemplative, "you're always welcome here, you know." 

And Zayn's just gone from awesome to creepy. Maybe it's a secret werewolf power, mind reading. Maybe Harry could learn it so he could crack Louis's code. 

"Okay," he answers. Zayn looks at him shrewdly.

"I mean it, Harry. Don't mind Louis, if you do, he'll come around, just—you don't have to repay us or whatever, you know? We're happy to help, and I can tell you appreciate that, so." 

"I didn't clean to repay you, I don't think. I just like doing it."

"We might have to keep you, then," Zayn chuckles. He's quiet again; sips on his tea a little and seems to think about what to say next. 

Against his better judgement, Harry opens his mouth and instantly regrets it. "You left me alone today."

"I'm sorry about that," Zayn turns to him, earnest. ”Louis wanted—"

"No, no," Harry interrupts him quickly, "that's not—no, I mean, you left me here alone even though you barely know me. I could've stolen all your precious China." 

Zayn laughs. "Not much to steal here. Honestly, we're all more than happy for new faces around here. We tend to get a bit isolated." 

Harry just. Looks.

"And it helps that you seem pretty great. "

" _Aaaw._ "

Zayn pokes him in the shoulder, hard, then gives it up and slumps against Harry's side comfortably. They sip tea and watch telly without really watching it, calm and settled. 

"You know," Zayn says, when the comedy show ends and a news segment comes on, "you're really comfortable. I should be preparing a lecture for Tuesday, but I kinda don't wanna move." 

Harry chuckles. "Right, forgot you're an educator."

"I'm a lecturer, Harry, I don't even have a PhD. Speaking of, though, a little bird’s told me that you were thinking of being an _educator_ , too." 

"Does Liam tell you everything?"

"Yes," Zayn answers, dead serious. 

Harry ponders his options, now. He remembers his conversation with Liam well, remembers seeing him clam up for the first and only time when he'd asked about Zayn. He knows he shouldn't pry, and maybe if he stays friendly and nice and cleans often, eventually, he'll become someone they would all tell their secrets to. But Harry is a curious creature by nature. He wants to know _now_. 

"He said you wanted to teach kids, though," he says, and closes his eyes, not knowing what to expect. 

Zayn is still relaxed and warm beside him, not tensing up or moving away, but his hand is shaking as he puts his mug back on the table. He chuckles humourlessly, leans back, and wraps his arms around himself. 

He look so sad, just then, so different from the bright-eyed Zayn that teases Louis all the time, or the kind Zayn that apologised to him for something he'd had no part in. Harry hates that it's him who made Zayn look like that. 

"I do," he says, eventually, just as Harry is about to take his question back. "But I can't." 

"Why not?" Harry asks, tentative.

"I wouldn't trust myself around children. I mean, a lecture hall full of adults know how to get themselves out when there's danger, but kids just—they'd want to help, you know? They wouldn't understand that I'm dangerous."

And— _oh_. Oh no. 

"Zayn," says Harry, already on his way to teary-eyed. "You're not dangerous."

Zayn shakes his head. "We all are, under the right circumstances. I have the wolf under control completely, but there's no telling what could break that control. I can barely stand to walk out the door every day as it is." 

Harry sniffles, and feels incredibly selfish. 

"I've never even—my only full transformation was at my first full moon. I haven't been a wolf since then. I'm not at peace with it, and I never will be, but I'm trying to cope, you know?" 

He brings an arm up, slowly, giving Zayn time to move away. When he doesn't, Harry pulls him closer, closer still, until he can rest his head next to Zayn's. He inhales the scent of the other werewolf, cinnamon and sandalwood and Zayn himself, kind, kind Zayn. Harry is a little bit in awe.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, an empty apology that he so desperately means. _I'm sorry that I asked. I'm sorry that you feel like this._

 _I'm sorry I can't help._

"Not your fault," Zayn chuckles, voice throaty. 

"Yeah," Harry answers. 

They sit in silence again, watching a car being pulled out of a ditch on the TV screen. It's comfortable, despite what just happened, and Harry's brain is staggering to comprehend the enormity of Zayn actually trusting him with this under no pressure, just because he thought Harry was a person who deserved to know. He feels welcome, and trusted, and important – and once again, selfish, because he is not important in any part of this, Zayn is. 

More than anything else, all of it makes Harry wish he could do something, _anything_.

When he's leaving, after Liam's come back and they helped him stock the fridge, Zayn stops him in the doorway and hugs him for a long time. Harry can't remember the last time he'd felt so comfortable in the arms of someone who wasn't his mum. 

As he runs home through the forest, wind lashing at his hair, he sends several reproachful looks to the Moon out of sheer helplessness.

*

The next weekend, quite suddenly, he decides to get on a train to Holmes Chapel. He's apprehensive and shaky as he buys his ticket, and tells himself he doesn't know why, but he's lying, really. He knows full well what's got him going, why after yet another phone call with his mum that had her sounding worried, he's dragging himself onto an overstuffed train on a Friday afternoon with nothing but his phone and wallet.

He's finally got Liam's phone number, and he sends off a _sorry :(_ after Liam says it's a shame Harry can't make film night. He'd only been once, but Harry thinks it's a shame, too. 

He brings the conversation to a close soon, trying not to glare at the spotty teen that keeps looking at the screen of Harry's phone over his shoulder. He chews gum and listens to Snow Patrol the entire three hours it takes for the train to stop in Holmes Chapel.

Through the empty square and streets with sturdy brick houses, Harry walks home slowly, subconsciously trying to delay the conversation he knows he's going to have to have. He thinks of the last time he'd been here, happy to find out he feels different now; better. At the house, he stops and gives himself a moment to take it in the way it is now – he refuses to admit it to himself, but there's doubt forcing itself into his thoughts, eating away at his calm arguments and rational explanations. He knows there's no way his mum will be anything but sympathetic, but… _but_. 

"Harry? What are you doing standing out there, love?" his mum asks suddenly, looking at him shrewdly through the open kitchen window. Harry blushes, runs a hand through his hair and jogs down the garden path in a familiar dance, avoiding the flowerpots. She meets him at the front door. 

In a movement that's eerily reminiscent of two weeks ago, Harry dramatically falls into her arms. He's not near tears this time, at least, but he's shaking with nerves, with apprehension, with anticipation. 

"Come on in," she tells him, patting his cheek fondly. She doesn't ask why he's home so soon, and Harry knew she wouldn't – she knows that sometimes, he gets a little overwhelmed, and needs to be with his family. Her and Gemma tease him about it sometimes, too, but he knows they love it. 

Wordlessly, mum hands him a cup of tea, made just how he likes it, and sits him down at the kitchen table. 

Harry swirls his spoon in the dark liquid and ponders. He should probably get this over with now, before he has an aneurysm. If only he knew how to start this conversation. How in the world is he supposed to say _I'm a werewolf_ to his mum. With a straight face.

"Baby," Anne says gently, touches his face with just her fingertips from where she's sitting opposite him. "Is there something you want to tell me?" 

Harry splutters, too-hot tea burning down his throat. "What." 

"I've been a little worried," she admits, looking at him softly. "You seemed a little on edge the last time you were here, but I didn't want to ask—"

"No, you're right," he interrupts, figuring this is as good an opener as any. "I…wasn't myself."

"Okay. What's wrong?” There's a slight frown creasing her forehead now, a stiff set to her jaw, no doubt determined to find out what it is that Harry's been hiding from her. 

"Um. You know how I didn't come home after I'd gone to Cranage?" he asks, uselessly.

"Yes?" 

Harry closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. This might the most difficult thing to say, really, even worse than admitting to his furry problem. "I lied."

"Darling," Anne says, eyes full of sympathy, "I already knew that. I'm your mum." 

And Harry's figured, really. "Why weren't you mad?" 

"I told you already. I was worried. And if something was bothering you, I was hoping you would come to me." 

Harry nods and reaches for his mum's hand, like he remembers doing through all the important things in his life, and she meets him halfway. 

"Harry, you're scaring me," she tries to smile, but it's wan. He's only about to scare her, Harry thinks. 

"I, um…something happened to me. When I was on my way to the train station. I don't really remember much of it, to be honest?" 

She's looking at him with wide eyes, and, right. What he's just said sounds all kinds of terrifying. 

"I woke up in a forest outside of London when it was already dark—oh God, Mum, don't cry, I'm okay, I promise." 

Mum's wiping her eyes with a kitchen towel. Harry can't bring himself to even imagine what's running through her head; he does know mums, and she's probably thinking of him lying half-dead, hidden in a pile of fallen leaves. 

"I was—this is going to sound really strange. I was bitten." Here it is, then. Moment of truth. Harry tries to take a breath, but no air gets in. "I was bitten by, um…by a werewolf." 

" _Harry_ ," she says, and actually lets go of his hand. He can see his own hurt mirrored in her eyes, like she couldn't believe he'd do this to her. His heart is hurting, beating out of time, and he's frozen, for just a second. 

"No, Mum, listen. I know how it sounds, but I—"

"What makes you think it's okay to joke about things like this? I was worried sick, and you—you—" she's speaking calm and low, if frantic, and somehow, it's even worse than if she'd shouted.

Harry knows he only has one option. Shaking and terrified, he calls on the wolf, a call that's becoming more comfortable and familiar every day. He welcomes it, channels it, and focuses it to let the gold in his eyes shine through. 

He's slid his hands off the table and into his lap, now, playing with his sweat-slick fingers as he looks at her. He burns, inside and out, with fear, with emotion. 

His mum is looking at him in absolute shock, face frozen. He's gone through the denial himself, but he has no idea what she has to be feeling. When he can't hold her gaze anymore, tears threatening to fall from the corners of his eyes, he blinks, and the wolf is gone. 

"What," she gasps, so soft it's only thanks to his wolf senses he hears her, "what was that, Harry, I don't understand." 

Harry thinks he might have to just shift all the way, here in the kitchen. He doesn't like the half-human, half-werewolf thing that he can turn into, thinks it makes him look like a monster from a storybook. He doesn't want his mum seeing him like that. 

"Mum, please don't be scared? I promise it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," he says, and thinks he already has, just by having to say those words. 

Then, he stands up, closes his eyes, and focuses on the rattling in his bones as they shorten and rearrange. He's practiced the shift a few times, in the forest just behind the house, with Liam watching over him. He's nowhere near as smooth as he's seen Louis be, but he'll get there someday. 

Still, slowly but surely, he feels his clothes loosening and falling off, his joints hurting until he drops on all fours, and then he's a wolf, sitting there in a sad puddle of loose jeans and shirt on their polished kitchen floor. The world is a little more monochromatic, and the fur sits heavy on Harry's back, but his mind is clear. He looks at his mum, steady, and wills her to understand.

"Oh my God," is all she says, holding a hand to her mouth. She's pale and still, like a moment suspended in time, and the cold rising off the tiled floor is freezing Harry's heart. He listens to the beat of hers, frantic, rushing so fast he wants desperately to hold her hand again, just to calm her down. 

When nothing happens for long minutes, Harry unlocks his limbs and moves a little, tugging his shirt every which way with his teeth until he gets it off. He steps out of the dark pools of his jeans, taking a step closer, and. Oh. 

He can smell her fear to where he's standing. He's only learning to recognise emotion slowly, but this one rings in his nose clear as day, strong and unmistakable, and it strikes right in his chest, takes all his breath away. On some level he understands, of course he does, but the one thing he'd always thought his mum would never be is _afraid of him_. It burns, like a black hole expanding in Harry's lungs and sucking in all his air. He lets out a whine, and if he could cry, he would. 

Tentatively, he takes a step closer, just one, claws clicking on tile. The air has gotten difficult to breathe, heavy with tension and unspoken things. Silently, the only way he can, he prays. _Please, Mum. Please_.

"Who did this to you?" she says, finally. She's crying, but she barely notices, pushing her fingers into her lips so hard they go white.

Harry shakes his head, hopes it communicates a somewhat decent _I don't know_. He's been trying to remember, thinking he was ready to face it, but he's still drawing a blank - just darkness and red eyes. 

"Can you—could you please turn back?" she asks, and Harry complies immediately, covers himself haphazardly with clothes, all clumsy teeth, and lets the wolf retreat in peace. She turns away while he gets dressed, and he can see the shake in her arms getting worse, hears in a whisper he isn't supposed to hear, _I can't look at you like this_.

"Mum, I—" he has to clear his throat, voice gone tight and raspy, "I'm still me." He feels like the five-year-old him, now, criss cross applesauce on the kitchen floor. All that's missing is Gemma smugly telling him she’s going to rat him out for sitting on the cold tile. 

"Why would anybody do this to a human being?" she asks, equal parts sadness and anger, and oh, Harry maybe hadn't been expecting that. 

"I don't know," he says, honestly. "Some of us—"

" _Us_?" she hisses, unkind, "Harry, you're not a—a monster!" 

"No, I'm not," he agrees.  

"There has to be a way to turn this around, it's absolutely ridiculous—"

"Mum."

"Harry, be rational about this. What you just did…" 

"Is not normal, I know," Harry says shrewdly. "But, Mum. I'm coming to terms with it. I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life, and it's not all bad." He tries to be reassuring, even with how badly his voice is shaking. 

"It's only been two weeks—oh God. Did you—on the full moon—does something happen?" 

Harry drops her gaze, curling into himself. "Yeah, it's, yeah. The first few full moons are usually rough, until you learn how to control it." 

"Did you…" she swallows, crying so hard she's blinking constantly, "did you hurt anybody?" she almost whispers. 

"I didn't," Harry smirks a little, humourless, still proud that he can say it, now, that the worst of his worries has been extinguished, at least for the moment. He has nothing to be proud of _really_ , because Louis is the one who pulled him through, stayed with him and made sure he didn't get hurt, but Louis would probably throw that back in Harry's face. 

"How did you—how do you know all this? Where did you go?" Mum's getting that fire in her eyes back, just a little, that curious spark that Harry's inherited. 

"I—um. I found some friends? Friends who are—like me. Werewolves." 

She scowls. 

"No, Mum, I swear they're amazing. They found me in the forest and fed me and gave me a place to sleep, and they let me come by whenever I want. One of them, Liam…he gave me some books. So I could learn as much as I could." 

"Were you with them for the full moon?"

Harry nods, "I was locked in the basement. No, don't do that face, I asked them to."

That seems to stop her for a minute, softening back into the way Harry likes her best, into the expression that always soothed Harry's scraped knees. "Oh, baby," she says, and the last, lingering trace of fear that had been irritating his nose is gone. 

"I'm sorry I kept it from you," he says, voice full of tears. "I just didn't…I didn't know how to tell you something like this." 

"Oh, no, darling, it's okay. I understand," she says, and then she stands up. She's across the kitchen with two steps, meeting Harry where he's stood up and wrapping her arms around him. He's sobbing into her blouse, with happiness, with sadness, with relief. "I'm just so glad you had someone to help you. So glad." 

"I'm sorry," he apologises, again, just because.

"No, Harry, this isn't your fault," she says, and Harry cries harder. There's something about it being his mum who absolves him of guilt, who tells him what he's known all along in the no-nonsense voice he's always listened to.

"Okay," he says.

"Okay," she answers.

She holds him for what seems like a small eternity, never wavering, even though her arms are probably hurting by now. It's just what Harry needs, and everything, _everything_ just washes away, like a heart drawn in the sand at high tide. It's peaceful. 

Later, they sit down on the sofa with tea and sandwiches. She asks him questions, and he answers, and he doesn't lie. 

He tells her about the forest and the house, rustling leaves and creaky old wood, worn furniture that feels like home. 

He tells her about Niall, and how honest he is, and how full of life and enthusiasm. Tells her about Liam, his unwavering support and quiet contemplation and empathy. About Zayn, with the sparkling eyes and all-knowing smile and quick wit. 

He talks about Louis a little more than he should, probably, omitting anything and everything about how fascinated (obsessed, shut up) he is. Harry talks about Louis. Talks about how he knew exactly what to do when Harry was falling apart on the full moon, and about how gentle he's been with Harry, always. He mentions the jokes, and the childishness, and the way he sparkles when somebody makes him laugh. He talks about Louis as a wolf, about the cheek and affection and the adorable shaggy tail. 

Throughout it all, his mum smiles at him, soft.

*

When Harry comes visit the next week, everybody's sitting on the front porch, having a conversation that doesn't look pleasant in the slightest. He stops where he is, ankle-deep in mud and leaves, and almost drops the paper bag of cupcakes he's carrying.

"Oh shit," he says, and all heads turn to him, "It's a bad time, isn't it. I'm just gonna—"

"No, actually," Zayn motions for him to join them, "Li was just about to call you. You should know about this."

Harry steps closer, tentative, not quite sure he _wants_ to know. Niall grabs him by the shoulders and sits him on one of the dirty front steps. 

"So, listen," he turns to him, an air of seriousness and authority about him, "there's this family of hunters, right off their nut, everybody calls them the Swifts, nobody knows where the fuck they came from. They did some right insane stuff a few years ago, burned down a few werewolf lairs and the like, and then they disappeared. We thought we got rid of them, but, well—"

"They're back in town," Liam says grimly. "There aren't many werewolves left around here, and if they're here to hunt, they're going to get to us sooner or later."

Harry gulps. "B-but…what about Niall's family? Can't they, like, take you under their wing or something?"

Louis chuckles drily. "The _us_ includes you, Pup. They're most likely to do a search for new werewolves, actually, just to see how many of them they can take out – and no, Bobby does enough for us as it is. No one in their right mind would go up against the Swifts and tell them there are _nice_ werewolves living here." 

"For the record, my family aren't like them. We follow the Code." 

"Which is?" Harry asks, confused, trying to recall if he'd read anything about hunters in Liam's books. 

"Well, basically, if you haven't killed anyone, you're good with us. Dad's thinking of going out of business anyway, so we just go after the rogue ones now. Like the one that bit you, you know, dangerous ones." 

Thinking about Niall, always cheerful, excitable Niall, shooting at werewolves with a bow, eyes cold like a soldier, makes Harry shiver unpleasantly.

"I should be on the lookout, then," he says grimly. 

"Yeah," Zayn says, "maybe it'd be better if you didn't come here for a while." Hearing him say that _hurts,_ even if Harry knows it’s for his own safety. "So they don't see you, obviously. Come on, Harry, I told you you were welcome here whenever you wanted, and I meant that." 

Louis looks up at Zayn sharply, which only serves to help Harry realise that Louis had not been in on that particular piece of information. It makes Harry want to retreat somewhere dark with his tail between his legs; he doesn't want to intrude in their friendships, such beautiful, intricate things. 

"He's right," Liam says sadly, "If they're getting back into hunting, this is the first place their people will go. It used to be full of us, there were four packs just on this side of the forest.”

"Four _packs_? And they killed them all?" Harry asks incredulously, not quite capable of imagining that kind of cruelty. 

"They're not playing around." 

Harry nods silently, picking at a fraying seam in his jeans. "I'm gonna miss you guys."  

" _Harry_ ," Niall says with an exaggerated pout. "We'll miss your ugly mug, too. And the food."

"It's not going to be long, okay? We'll take care of them," Liam says.

"Take care of yourselves first and foremost," Harry scowls at him. "Don't go traipsing into danger just because." To Liam's left, Zayn is watching him with a soft expression, and Louis is smiling into his lap. 

Niall wraps his arms around Harry like a particularly clingy koala, obviously trying to not be obvious about ogling Harry's paper bag. Harry gives it to him, and relishes in the look of joy on Niall's face. 

"I can stay today though, right? I don't have any classes tomorrow," Harry says hopefully, like they're his parents and he needs permission from them to stay up late. 

Zayn raises an eyebrow at him.

"Cupcakes," Niall screeches the pitch of a very excited little girl, grabs three for himself, then passes the bag around. 

Louis actually laughs when he peers into the bag, looking at the results of Harry's sleepless night of baking – chocolate cupcakes, pink frosting and a stick wolf drawn on each one in sloppy black lines. It's _that_ laugh of Louis's, with the crinkles and the sharp little teeth and the sparkle and oh God, Harry is in trouble.  
   
" _Oh_ ," Liam says, fascinated, "Did you bake these?"

"Yeah." 

Niall says something that sounds vaguely like _awesome_ , gracing everyone with a view of what the inside of his mouth looks like full of half-chewed baked goods. 

Harry, though, is still laser-focused on Louis. He probably looks creepy, the way he's been told he does when he concentrates on something intensely, but there's something hypnotising about the huge bites Louis takes and the obnoxious way he chews. 

"Hey, Harry," Zayn reaches out a hand, "give me your phone." 

Harry doesn't even question him, just pulls the phone out of his jacket pocket. Zayn taps on the screen with one finger, fingers jumping from button to button, then passes the phone to Niall. Niall nods thoughtfully, copies Zayn, and leans forward to give it to Louis. 

Louis glares at the phone distrustingly, looking up at Liam with the slight frown of a child that doesn't feel like brushing their teeth. They have a silent conversation with their eyes, which Liam seems to win, and Louis, resigned, picks up the small device. 

When Harry's phone is handed back to him, he has three new contacts: Zayn's name with some sort of emoji he's not too sure about, a _Nialllll_ , and an absolutely hilarious _Louis Tomlison._ Harry hadn't actually known Louis's last name, but he thinks it's pretty, just like the person it belongs to. He chuckles, endeared and amused at the same time. 

"Now," Niall announces, brushing crumbs off his trousers, "Who's up for FIFA?"

*

Harry's Forced Separation, as he's started to call it, is in its second week, and he's already going stir-crazy. Suddenly, even though he's catching up on studying and accepts the frequent offers to go to the pub with Ed, he has too much time on his hands.

Niall and Liam are keeping him updated through texts, saying things like _nothing so far sorry .x_ and _did some tracking today theyve def been round_ and _dunno how much longer._ Harry writes back asking if everyone is okay, and always receives the same answer. Yes, Harry, don't worry.

The thing is, he can't help it. It's ridiculous, truly, that he's known them for less than a month. It seems like a lifetime ago, that night in the forest, and it feels like he's made a lifetime of memories, too. They're just young lads like him, but he looks up to them a ridiculous amount, wants to be around them to soak up bad jokes and werewolf trivia and all the little nuances of their relationships.

To pass time, Harry gets a job babysitting. It's not like he couldn't use extra money, now that he traipses around forests and brings baked goods every time he goes; and it's only for a while, until the whole mess with the Swifts is fixed. 

It's for Ed's friend's friends, a couple named Lou and Tom, who are as tattooed as they are fun, and their daughter is a riot. The first time Harry had come around, Lux immediately took him by the hand, sat him down in a plastic kiddie chair and dressed him up for a tea party. He loves her already; he's always loved children, always thought about having kids of his own, one day when he actually knows how to do grownup things. 

As he leans against the doorbell now, waiting for somebody to come get the door, he looks up at the pale moon in the late afternoon sky, a slight nervous stirring in his stomach. It's growing in, slowly but surely, and he's not done much to learn how to control himself since the last full moon. The boys have promised to teach him, once he was sure he'd mastered shifting when he wanted; but now, with things the way they are, he wonders if he's going to have to find somewhere to lock himself up. The thought terrifies him as much as it did the last time, all alone in some dark basement, with nothing to take his wolfish frustration out on but himself. 

"Haz!" a tiny voice says as the door opens and light spills onto the front stairs. Lux is clapping happily in her father's arms, tiny hands reaching out for Harry. 

"Hello there, Princess," he grins at her, stepping forward to let her wrap herself around him like a monkey. "Hey, Tom." 

Tom nods his head at him, amused, and goes back to the hallway mirror to fix his tie. 

"Tha's not _Tom_ ," Lux chastises gently, patting Harry's cheek with condescension a three-year-old should not be capable of. "Tha's Daddy." 

"Of course," Harry nods solemnly, trying to take off his shoes. "I'm sorry." 

“Is okay.” 

Lou comes down the stairs then, decked out in an impressive cocktail dress, all tall pumps and sparkly eyelashes. 

"Mummy!" Lux screeches excitedly, clambering to get out of Harry's arms and running to her mother on short legs. "So pretty!" she coos as she takes the shimmering fabric of the dress between her fingers. Lou waves a greeting at Harry, then bends down to kiss Lux’s hair, and in a few minutes, they're leaving – some posh dinner with friends of theirs who've just come back from China. Lux sniffles a little, but promises to be good for Harry and put lots and lots of tiaras on him. 

They settle down in the living room, with a big blanket, toy ponies, a foldable stroller and all of Lux's dolls, _all of them_. She has days when she wants to play with cars and robots, but today, she'd left all of that in the toy box. 

"Okay," she claps her hands when they put everything down, strewn from one end of the living room to the other. "Pick a pony now." 

She lines up all her My Little Ponies in a neat row, and Harry realises he can actually name all of them now. 

"I'd like Rarity, please," he says, sitting with his legs crossed, the way he'd been ordered.

Lux pouts. " _I_ wanted Rarity." 

"Okay," Harry retreats immediately. "May I have Rainbow Dash, then?" 

"You as-ked nicely," Lux assesses, "You may." She picks out the biggest version of Rainbow Dash she has, a big plastic thing, and hands him a heart-shaped brush. 

"She is goin' to the ball. She needs to look pretty," Lux raises a finger to emphasise. Harry nods, picks apart the remnants of a braid in the pony's hair, and starts brushing.

Opposite him, Lux does the same with her pony, singing something softly. Just as Harry is moving around to the tail, black jeans covered in plastic rainbow hair, his phone starts vibrating in his back pocket. 

"Um, Lux?" he asks tentatively. She doesn't take kindly to playtime being interrupted.

"Yes?" 

"I need to, uh, use the bathroom for a second, okay?"

She tilts her head. "Are you gonna go pee-pee?" 

"Exactly," he grins. At her nod, he speeds out of the room, tugging the phone out and frowning at the screen flashing _Liam_. None of them had called him before, and Harry has to lean against a wall to stop panicking. 

Breathe, he reminds himself. _Breathe_.

"Liam?" he asks when he picks up, breath heavy like he'd just run a mile. 

"Hi!" Liam answers, voice tinny and compressed, but cheerful. Harry thinks the sting in his eyes might be tears of relief. "Listen, we have updates, and we need to talk about the full moon, but we should probably do it in person." 

Okay. Right down to business, then. "Um, sure, when—"

"Is there any chance we could come to yours? Like, right now?" 

"I'm not in hall," Harry frowns.

"Oh. Where are you?" 

"I'm babysitting." 

"You—nevermind. Okay, well, could one of us stop by where you are, maybe?"

Harry almost says yes immediately, desperate to see them and know what's going on as he is. But Lux is still sitting innocently on the living room carpet, butting ponies together, and Harry remembers that this isn't his house, Lou and Tom's invitation to invite a friend over whenever notwithstanding. 

"I'd rather you didn't? I mean, don't take this the wrong way, Liam, I really want to know what's going on, but if there's any risk of danger, I can't have you coming here." 

"There's not," Liam says immediately, tone already apologetic. "We really think they're gone, and we can all make sure we're not followed." 

"I don't know," Harry bites his lip. "If they're gone, can't I just come over to the—"

"The house is not in the best state," Liam says sheepishly. 

" _Liam_. What happened?"

"Nothing important. We're all okay, _stop worrying_." The irony of Liam, of all people, saying that to him is not lost on Harry. 

"God," Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. ”Fine, yeah. Which one of you is coming?" 

"Not sure yet." 

Harry heaves a put-upon sigh and gives Liam the address, makes sure that whoever's coming shakes any potential stalkers before even thinking of knocking on the door. Liam hangs up with a cheerful "bye". 

Harry goes back to the living room, already feeling bad for leaving Lux for so long.

"I don't wanna play ponies anymore," she declares as soon as he sits back down. "I wanna do princess makeover." 

Harry sighs. He should have known. 

Together, they go upstairs to her room, and he helps her get nail polish and kiddie lipstick off the highest shelf while she gathers tiaras and hairbands and plastic jewellery.

The first point of order, as usual, is painting nails. Lux still has some polish left on most of her fingers, but she orders Harry to give her a new coat anyway.

"You misst a spot!" she cries indignantly before Harry has even finished the first finger.

"Patience, Princess," he says in his poshest accent. ”All in good time." She giggles.

With his tongue stuck between his teeth, Harry swipes the tiny brush up and down, frowning in concentration. He's actually managing to put most of the pale purple concoction on Lux's tiny nails instead of all around them, and he's a little proud. 

"Yours now," she shouts, delighted, when he's finished. She spreads her fingers and puts her hands on her thighs, blowing on them carefully. Harry is overcome with how cute she is for a moment. 

"I'm not sure I can paint mine," he says sadly. 

"Don't be silly," she hands him the nail polish bottle, and, well. Okay. Harry unscrews the top, sniffs at the polish distrustingly, and starts painting. Fascinated, he realises that the cold feeling over his nails actually isn't all that unpleasant.

Once he's done, he mirrors Lux's pose. "Hey, Luxie?"

She looks up at him and smiles at the nickname. Her cheeks bunch up and dimple and she's incredibly adorable and _Harry really likes children_ , shut up. "Yes, Hawee?" 

"There's a, uh, a friend of mine that's coming over in a bit, is that okay?" 

"Can your friend play with us?" 

Harry thinks on that one for a while, but really, whoever comes by won't have a choice. "Sure." 

"Then it's okay," she blows on her nails one more time. "Tiaras now!" 

Harry picks his favourite, a silvery one with a pink heart-shaped stone and fluffy pink feathers; Lux says he looks like a proper fairytale king with it on. He helps her put on the three she'd chosen, a bright array of colours that's as lively as the little girl herself. 

It's just as he's finished trying to zip her up in her princess dress that the doorbell rings. Harry freezes for a second, not sure how to open the door and tell whoever's come to visit that Lou and Tom aren't home. 

"Your friend is here!" Lux claps excitedly, and it’s only then that Harry remembers. 

He gets up and walks quickly to the door, not wanting the neighbours to spot whoever's come to talk to him. He can already hear dogs outside going crazy with the presence of a werewolf. 

A smile is ready on his face as he starts opening the door, excited to see one of the boys.

Except. Oh. 

Of all the people Harry hadn't been expecting, Louis has to be number one on the list. He's leaning against the doorframe, dressed in black trousers and a jean jacket, looking every bit like a male model, and like he'd rather be swimming in a pit of sharks. 

"Oh," Harry says, eloquent as always. "Hi." 

Louis raises his eyes, cocking an eyebrow as he runs his gaze up and down Harry's body. It's not something Harry's seen him do before, and he flushes red and hot under the scrutiny. 

"You're wearing a tiara," Louis says in lieu of a greeting, stepping inside. "And nail polish," he adds, looking at Harry's hands as he closes the door. 

"There's nothing wrong with nailpolish," Harry immediately tries to defend himself, turning to scowl at Louis, when a _thing_ happens. 

Now, Harry prides himself in being able to keep his composure in most situations. He goes through things internally and gets emotional about them into his pillow at night, but nothing could have possibly prepared him for this.

The thing is, just as Harry turns away from the door, ready to fight Louis about serious stuff like gender norms, Louis spots Lux, and. Jesus Christ. Shit. _Fuck_. 

Louis's face does the most magical, beautiful thing Harry has ever had the pleasure to witness. The slightly pinched expression he almost always seems to wear around Harry disappears completely, the creases in Louis's forehead smoothing out; he smiles so wide all his teeth poke out, eyes almost disappearing in a pleased squint, and the crinkles around them explode like fireworks. He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows jumping up as he completely transforms. 

He looks gorgeous; Harry can't breathe. 

"Hello," Lux speaks first, and Harry is grateful, because his ability to form words has been severely compromised. 

Louis, still absolutely radiant and looking like an embodiment of happiness itself, crouches down. "Hello, Your Highness," he says, in a voice Harry's never heard him use, "what's your name?" 

Lux giggles and presses her hands to her face, pleased at the title she's been awarded. "I am Lux," she says, trying for serious, and Harry's tasting sugar in his mouth. When Louis smiles even wider, puts his hand on his chest and lowers his head in an imitation of a bow, Harry realises he's in serious, serious trouble. He can't get it out of his mind's eye, really, the picture of Louis smiling like that at his own children, playing with them when they're little babies, rolling around in the grass, and Harry's there too, for some reason, and he's smiling down at them and leaning over to Louis and—

Christ.

"It's a pleasure," Louis amps up his accent, grinning. "I'm Louis." 

"Louwee," Lux repeats excitedly, running forward and grabbing him by the hand. "Do you know how to play with Barbies, Louwee?" 

"Why, of course," Louis answers, and lets himself be led back to the living room. In the foyer, Harry has to lean against a wall and breathe for a minute. He follows them once his legs stop feeling like jelly.

In the minute he'd not been there to supervise, Louis and Lux have managed to pull all the pillows off the sofa, making them into Barbie beds, and are currently undressing all of Lux's dolls. Harry, knowing he's going to be the one who'll be putting all the microscopic clothes back on, heaves a fond, if put-upon sigh. 

"Okay," Lux is saying, waving a naked Barbie in the air, "Theresa is goin' to have a night-mare. You're mummy, you have to tell her everythin's gonna be OK." 

Louis takes the Barbie that Lux is pointing to indulgently, mile-wide smile still stuck on his face. His fringe falls and obscures his face when he leans down to talk to the doll. Harry wants to touch him, run his fingers through Louis's hair and just…breathe him in. 

"There, there, Theresa," Louis is saying, in a voice that's probably Harry's kryptonite, judging by the way it makes his heart clench. "Mummy's here, there's nothing to be scared of." 

Lux looks him up and down critically, then nods in approval. She starts rearranging the dolls, planning a different scene Louis will have to act out for her pleasure. In the meantime, Louis picks up one of the abandoned tiaras, running a finger over the plastic diamonds with a smile. Lux notices and snatches it away immediately. 

"Lux," Harry says, and Louis startles a little, like he'd forgotten Harry was in the room. "That's not very nice, is it. Louis was just looking. Don't tell him this," he lowers his voice into a perfectly fake whisper, "but I think he's a little bit jealous that you have so many pretty things." 

"Oh," Lux nods slowly, like she understands. Then, she turns around and hops to Louis, setting the tiara on his head ceremoniously. "I'm sorry you don't have a lot of pretty things. You can have some of mine," she says solemnly. Harry's heart melts, and Louis _beams_.

"Thank you," he says, looking genuinely pleased. 

Lux kisses him on the cheek, then draws back giggling. "You're scratchy!" 

“Oh. Yes, I suppose I am. Sorry, love," he giggles too. Giggles. Louis Tomlinson is giggling within Harry's range of hearing and his nose is all scrunched and his shoulders are all the way up by his ears and it's so hopelessly endearing and Harry really wants to find out how exactly Louis's stubble scratches. 

He immediately scratches the last thought, because _no_. There is a child in the room. 

Lux goes back to putting several naked Barbies in her Barbie car and strapping them in. Harry watches as Louis touches the tiara on his head, but doesn't take it off. Harry moves closer and fuck it, really; if he's a planet somewhere in the solar system and Louis is the Sun and Harry wants to orbit him forever, who cares. 

"You're really good with kids," he says, tentative despite wanting to climb Louis like a tree.

Louis startles again, tears his gaze away from where Lux is appears to be in the process of breaking the tiny steering wheel. His eyes seem a little surprised when they land on Harry, open and honest without the usual walls on guard. "Yeah," he answers softly, looking down. "Sisters." 

"Oh," Harry says, perhaps a little too excitedly - he's learning something new about Louis. "How many?" 

"Four," Louis is smiling, soft and private, but still a smile. "All younger. I don't see them much, nowadays," he says with an air of finality, ending the conversation before Harry can start inquiring like the curious idiot he is. He doesn't have much of an instinct for these things, but it's obvious that this is a sore subject, and he'd rather bite his tongue before he'd do something else to make Louis be cold with him. 

Still. "I'm sorry," he says, not quite knowing what he's apologising for. 

To his surprise, Louis looks back at him, one corner of his mouth quirked up, with something akin to understanding. 

"Done!" Lux announces and pulls Harry off the sofa, sitting them all in a circle to have a good view of the Barbie car getting lost in a tunnel made out of two pillows propped up against each other. Louis gets into it like he's seeing actual, real life events playing out in front of him, gasping in all the right places, looking close to tears when the car drives in and doesn't drive out, and clapping when Lux reaches in and triumphantly saves the car from the monsters lurking in the dark. Harry can do little more than look at him in fascination over the mound of pillows, watch the sparks in his eyes and listen to him laugh, a windchime on a spring morning. 

Soon enough, it's bedtime, and Lux pouts and pouts until Louis promises to tell her a story before she goes to sleep. Harry doesn't even think twice when he leaves them together in the living room to get Lux out of her dress, and goes upstairs to get her bath ready. As he's fiddling with the tap and reading labels, trying to figure out which of her five different bubble baths he's supposed to put in, their peals of laughter drift up to him, warming him more than the steam rising into the air ever could. 

Once the bath is full almost to the brim, mountains of bubbles standing tall, he goes back down to get updated on the current situation. To Harry's surprise, all of the toys are put away, tiaras stacked on the table, and the dress neatly folded in half on the sofa. They've turned on cartoons, and Louis is sitting leaning back on an armchair with Lux perched in his lap, chirping about this and that while Louis provides running commentary to Spongebob. 

For a moment, Harry leans against the doorframe and lets himself enjoy seeing Louis the way he is, and seeing Lux so happy and comfortable.

Eventually, he clears his throat. Two smiling faces turn to look at him, and Harry is almost blinded. "Bath's ready." 

"Oh," Lux frowns, obviously reluctant to go. 

"Come on, Princess," Louis lifts her and puts her gently on her feet. "You can't go to bed dirty, can you now?" 

Lux shakes her head, sporting an impressive pout. "Can you come with me, Louwee?" 

Unsure, Louis lifts his eyes to Harry's. Harry grins, holding his gaze and willing him not to look away. "Course he can." 

And up they go. Louis and Lux stomp on the stairs like a little herd of elephants, giggling and making ridiculous noises. In the bathroom, they squeal almost identically when they see the bubble apocalypse; Lux doesn't even run around the bathroom trying to get out of undressing herself like she usually does. Louis takes her under the arms and lowers her into the water, beeping like a crane, and it's the actual cutest thing Harry has ever seen. 

Once she's settled down comfortably on the baby seat inside the bath, Harry's arm extended towards her in case she slips, she starts babbling on about her day in kindergarten. Harry knows the names of all her teachers by now, knows that Oliver is the one who always pulls her hair and Susan never sleeps after lunch and wreaks havoc instead. For Louis, though, it's all brand new information, and he seems so genuinely interested it makes Harry's heart hurt with fondness. 

"What about the evening, then?" he asks when she's done. She cranes her head to look at him, runs a wet hand through Louis's fringe and leaves behind traces of bubbles like shiny snowflakes.

"Aw-some!" she grins, cheeks red from the warm water. "I like Louwee," she announces, patting him on the cheek. Harry feels his face scrunch up helplessly, and it takes everything he has in him not to coo. Personally, he thinks Louis could stand to hear things like that a little more often. 

"What about me?" he gasps, holding a hand to his heart like he's mortally wounded. If she wasn't three years old, Harry could swear Lux rolls her eyes at him. 

"I like you too," she concedes, "but you're less fun." 

Louis laughs at that, a loud bark that sounds almost wolfish, and immediately claps a hand over his mouth. If Harry asked right now, Louis would probably attribute the red flush on his cheeks to the steam in the room. 

"Oh well," Harry says, pretending to be sad, though he feels like there's a bursting supernova inside his chest. 

"Tha's okay," she looks at him, only a little bit condescending. "Louwee can teach you how to be fun." 

Harry can't help looking at him then, he really can't. Louis isn't looking back, but the smile that's threatening to overtake his face is unmistakable in his pinched mouth and the crinkled corners of his eyes. 

"I'm sure he can," Harry answers.

As all baths do, theirs, too, ends with a bathroom covered in bubbles. Unsurprisingly, it had been Lux who started it, smothering her hands in them and blowing them right into Harry's face, soon joined by Louis, and by the time the water goes cold, the mountains of suds are all over their clothes and the room. 

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Lux is clapping in delight. Meanwhile, Harry is trying to rustle up some towels inside the cabinet under the sink, Louis's presence burning hot right behind him, probably waiting for something to dry himself with too.

Finally, Harry finds two red towels folded neatly in the very back, and straightens up to hand one to Louis. He's standing closer than Harry had been expecting - so close he'd have to tilt his head back to look Harry in the eye.

"Here," he says, trying for a friendly tone. Almost in slow motion, Louis reaches out, short, delicate fingers just about closing around the towel Harry is holding towards him. In the last second, Harry moves his hand, and their fingers brush. He prays that he isn't the only one that feels the crackling, exciting electricity pass through him.

It's a bit ridiculous, really, trying to get someone to touch hands with him when he's had said someone lying on him while he was stark naked, but a lot has changed since then. Harry is content with baby steps, confident that eventually, they will get him somewhere. 

Turning to the mirror, Harry ruffles his hair a few times, trying to get the worst of the moisture out. It's already curling in the back, little springy ringlets tickling his neck and ears, resembling the poodle-like mess he had on his head when he was seventeen. Behind him, he hears Louis drying himself, and when he turns around, he sees him putting the towel lightly over Lux's head and quickly pulling it up, just to make her giggle. He's making faces, too, crossing his eyes and sucking his lips in. Harry is a little bit in love.

When they're all somewhat dry, Harry helps Lux brush her teeth. Then he hoists her up in his arms and carries her to her room, where he tries to wrestle her into her Rapunzel pyjamas. It's a futile task, really, what with Louis tickling her randomly and trying to make her laugh any way he can. 

Finally, when she's all tucked into bed and has her star-shaped nightlight plugged in, she kicks him out with a gentle pat on the cheek, a kiss, and a pacifying assurance of "Louwee can tell better night-night stories". Which he probably can, to be fair; Harry knows very few people who need as much time to think about what they're saying as he does. He's been trying for years to prove to everybody he knows that he's actually fairly smart; it's just that there are too many words in his brain, and picking the right ones to string into sentences is challenging. 

As he's closing the door, Harry is tempted to stay and listen to Louis's bedtime story. He knows, though, how surprisingly personal fairytales can be. He'd be intruding.

He smiles instead and, feeling light, walks downstairs to put the kettle on for tea. There are still conversations to be had.

*

Twenty minutes later, Louis hops down the steps, light and quiet. He's got a soft smile on his face and an air of contentment around him, like all his jagged edges have been blunted, sharp colours turned into soft pastels. Surprisingly, when he spots Harry watching him from the kitchen, none of that sharpness comes back.

"She's asleep," he says quietly, pulling on the sleeves of his newly exposed t-shirt, jacket drying in the bathroom. 

Harry smiles in acknowledgement, nodding his head towards the still-hot kettle. "Tea?" 

"Yeah. Milk, no sugar, thanks." 

Once they're both set, steaming mugs warming them in the otherwise cold house, they go back to the living room. On the TV screen, Spongebob has been replaced by Rugrats. 

It's floating in the air above them like a storm, the conversation that Louis actually came here to have, but Harry hopes that the rain will never come. It's supposed to be good news, but the evening is suddenly bleak around them, painting tired shadows on Louis's face, and regardless of the outcome, Harry can see the toll the past days have taken.

"So," Louis says in a no-nonsense voice as he huddles himself in a blanket, "about the hunters." 

"Yeah." Harry straightens up and turns towards him, giving him every little bit of his attention. 

"We think they're gone for now. They came to the house a couple of days ago, and we chased them all the way out of the forest." 

"How do you know they're not gonna come back?" Harry frowns, worry settling in his gut again.

"We don't," Louis shrugs and takes a sip of his tea. His upper lip glistens hypnotisingly with the moisture. "We've heard from other packs around London, they haven't tried for any of them, and the house they've been staying in is empty again." 

"That doesn't make sense." 

"Yeah, I know. The last time they were here, they stayed for a long time, tried to get rid of us all, but now…we have no idea, really. Bobby's been calling people and asking around." 

Harry nods, thoughtful. "Do you think they could've been seizing the target? You know, seeing how you respond to attack, observing your daily routine, that kind of thing?" 

"Well, to be honest," Louis pulls his legs up, curling into a ball, "that's the number one theory right now. We'll obviously understand if you don't want to come by anymore now that it's potentially dangerous, but we can't afford to live in constant fear of them." 

He sounds rehearsed, almost the way he used to be with Harry in the beginning, but the ice is gone from his voice.

" _No_ ," Harry says empathically, "I mean, I've been bored out of my mind and going mad with worry, I'm probably going to show up and never leave." 

Slight and almost imperceptible in the dark, the corner of Louis's mouth twitches. 

"Has anybody been hurt?" Harry remembers to ask, now that the worst of his worries have gone. 

Louis shrugs. "We heal quickly." 

"That's not what I asked," Harry fires back, fuelled by sadness, more than anything; sadness that Louis, and probably the rest of the boys, pass over being injured just because the immediate evidence, the scratches, the blood, disappear so quickly. Harry's dad, before he left them, grabbed Harry's wrist so hard he broke it, one time, and the bone may have healed in three months, but the wound still hasn't. 

"Nothing too bad," Louis concedes, recognising the challenge in Harry's voice. "Zayn took an arrow to the shoulder, Liam was blind for a half hour. I broke my back." 

_Nothing too bad_ , he says. Harry feels so angry he could crush the cup in his hand with the strength of it, the sound of his blood rushing now familiar in his ears. He decides to breathe through it, though, reminds himself that being selfish won't get him anywhere; he may have been sitting around, biting his nails and worrying, but at least he'd been safe, because they warned him. The worst pain he'd experienced was burning himself on the stove, while his friends were getting torn up by people with weapons. 

"Are you—no, sorry. You're obviously okay," he stutters, spoon clinking against the side of the cup as his hands shake. 

"Yes, Pup, I'm just fine," Louis looks right at him for the first time, light blue flames dancing in his eyes. "Why are you so worried?" he tilts his head to the side, genuinely curious.

Harry stares at him incredulously. He'd though he'd been just about the most obvious idiot on the planet. "I care about you," he says, then, "All of you. Obviously." 

For a few seconds that stretch out like hours, Louis looks at him, just— _looks_. Studies him. Looks so deep Harry can feel him in his soul. His eyes look liquid in the blue light, like the surface of a moonlit sea.

"Fair enough," he says, in the end, turning his gaze back to the steam rising from his tea. "About the full moon."

"Can I come?" Harry asks immediately, the only question he can think of asking. He needs to learn how to control the shifts, regardless of what state the moon is in, and if he's going to have time to do so, he needs to survive next week. 

"You should be able to, yeah." 

"Can you show me how to control it while I'm there?" 

Louis blinks at the ceiling, contemplative. "I'm not sure it'll come that easily. But yes, sure, we'll show you. Do you want to be in the basement again?" 

"Wouldn't that be safer? With the hunters around, and all." 

"We could just stay inside the house," Louis shrugs. "Besides, I could handle you just fine last month." 

Despite himself, Harry blushes. "Yeah," he croaks, and Louis chuckles at him. It’s wonderful. 

"We'll see how the rest of us feel on Friday, how about that? Some full moons are worse than others."

"Oh," Harry says. "How do you mean?" 

"They're painful, sometimes," Louis shrugs, "Or if the pull of the moon is stronger, your control can slip. Oh, don't look so terrified, I've had maybe one of those in my entire glorious career of being a werewolf." 

"Which is…how long?" Harry asks, a little scared, a little daring.

Louis rolls his eyes. "Eight years." 

Harry doesn't know what number he'd been expecting, really. A part of him had though Louis was born a werewolf because of the grace with which he carries himself in his wolf form, the meticulous control he seems to have of the wolf's every action, and the way he uses it to his advantage. He exudes the power, almost, exudes confidence, and he comes off positively magnetic as a result. 

"Wow. I hadn't even been in this for eight weeks," Harry says, sheepish. Louis looks at him with kind eyes.

"No worries, Pup. You'll learn. I reckon you'll end up being better at this than I am." 

Inexplicably, Harry blushes. He remembers Niall telling him he could be strong, too, but he couldn't really tell how much sincerity was behind it then.

 (It could also be the fact that this is Louis essentially complimenting him, but Harry refuses to engage in that line of thought.)

"Why is your heart beating so fast?" Louis asks, amused. Harry is absolutely mortified. 

The thing is, he'd been introducing his heightened senses into his everyday life slowly, trying to get used to hearing water rushing in the pipes and smelling coffee that the people in the neighbouring flat make at five in the morning. He tends to forget there are uses for it in interpersonal communication as well - listening to the others’ heartbeat; the different, nuanced smells of feelings and emotions that are so complex they give him a headache. 

"I don't know," he answers, and it's not a complete lie. 

"Bollocks," Louis almost grins _, grins_ , "it just kicked up another notch."

Harry takes a deep breath and prays for patience. "'S nothing. Thank you for the compliment," he says sincerely, holding Louis's gaze. The half-grin on Louis's face stutters, then falls, and is replaced with a small, soft smile, one that looks private and gentle and _is actually for Harry_. He barely dares to breathe in fear of breaking the moment, just looking, hoping against hope that Louis won't go back to barely acknowledging him after today. 

Louis watches him back, silent, and the air in the room gets suddenly thicker. 

Harry clears his throat, trying to breathe through the images of lazy weekend evenings that Louis lounging on the sofa evokes in his mind. "And, uh…thank you for helping. With Lux," he nods towards the upstairs. "You didn't have to do that." 

“Oh come on," Louis says, voice brilliant, teasing. "It wasn't a problem. She's fantastic." 

"She is," Harry smiles. "And she only agreed to let you come if you'd play with her, so you didn't have much of a choice, anyway." 

Louis laughs. Harry is still not used to it. 

"Why did they send you, by the way?" Harry tries to be inconspicuous, voice deceptively light, breathing evenly to slow his heart. He can't not be curious, really, about what could be so terrifying it would get Louis to come meet him voluntarily. Louis raises his eyebrows, but doesn't comment on Harry's sudden questioning.

"Meh. There was a lot of tidying up to be done. I'm not a fan." 

Harry tries to placate himself - at least he's the better alternative to cleaning. 

"And I didn't feel like being stuck in the forest again. This is a nice neighbourhood," Louis continues, nodding appreciatively out of the window. Harry strains his ears a little, and underneath their combined breathing, he hears Louis's heart race.

"Well. Thanks for coming. Again." 

Louis clears his throat awkwardly, setting his mug delicately down on the coffee table, short fingers catching the rim. God, why had Harry not noticed how _small_ his hands are before. 

"I should go, actually. The living room's probably alright to watch footy now." 

It's on the tip of Harry's tongue, the invitation to _stay, Lou and Tom have three hundred channels, I'm sure every single footy league in the world is on there_. It never leaves his mouth. 

The heavy air evaporates and is replaced with awkwardness all around them like sticky molasses, but Harry will take it over cold, unbreachable space. Louis walks to the foyer and starts putting his shoes on, while Harry leaps upstairs three steps at a time to get Louis his jacket. It's dry now, and warm, and it smells a lot like him; smells so good Harry seriously contemplates smuggling it back to his flat and keeping it forever. 

"Here," he extends his arm before he's even completely off the stairs, handing the offending object to Louis lest he loses the fight with the urge to bury his face in the soft lining. 

"Thanks," Louis answers, puts the jacket on and pats down his pockets. He looks in the mirror, ruffles his hair a few times, and turns to Harry. "I'm, um. I'm going, then," he says – stammers – and points a thumb at the door. Harry almost trips over his feet in the rush to open it for him, not wanting to keep Louis waiting. 

"I'll see you next week?" says Harry, and it sounds like a question. 

"Yeah," Louis answers distractedly, looking somewhere behind Harry's shoulder. He reaches out to the dresser, picks something up, and before Harry knows what's happening, he feels fingers in his hair. Oh God oh God _oh God_.

Louis is reaching up, standing on his tiptoes like the personification of everything adorably cute and unfairly sexy Harry has ever seen, tongue poking out as he concentrates for a second on placing something cold in Harry's hair. Heat is radiating off his palms, so close to Harry's cheeks, and if Harry wishes Louis would just grab his face and pull him down and snog him senseless, well, he's only human. Werewolf. Whatever. 

Stepping back to survey his work, Louis grins. With a single finger, he pushes the – is that a _tiara_ – around a little more, and when he's finally satisfied, the smile on his face could power cities. 

"There. That's better," he says, quiet and soft and so utterly gorgeous. He's looking at Harry from ten inches away, with a fondness, a gentleness in his eyes that's never been aimed at him before. Harry's knees almost buckle.

"Thanks," he says, just low enough for it to be heard in the minuscule space between them, a breath rather than a word. Louis is so _close_ , if he just—

Louis hops up on his tiptoes again, brings a hand up to Harry's face, and kisses him. On the cheek. Harry's world zaps and short-circuits and fries to a crisp. 

"Bye," Louis says, still quiet but mischievous, and he's out of the door a millisecond after Harry manages a dazed "bye" back. 

On autopilot, he closes the door, turning to the mirror. The tiara he'd worn before is sitting perched on his head, curls artfully falling over and around it, and his cheeks are burning. He looks like somebody's dirty fantasy, and thoroughly fucked on top of that, and all that happened to him was a peck on the cheek. Jesus.

He can still feel the exact spots where Louis's fingers touched him, low by the corner of his lips, high on his cheekbone, just below his jaw. They're burning with a vicious fire, eating him alive, and the imprint of Louis's lips has probably left a permanent brand. Harry's never even had _sex_ that made him feel this hot under the collar.

Self-conscious to feel like this in a house that's not his own, he pads to the living room slowly and bundles up with a blanket, right in the indent that Louis's gorgeous little body has left on the sofa. His scent is still strong on the corduroy fabric. As Harry settles and leans back, tiara still tangled in his hair, his thoughts race so fast he has no hope of trying to comprehend any of them. 

He leaves any potential existential crises for tomorrow, and instead busies himself with watching the news.

*

The Friday of the full moon, walking up the hill towards the house feels liberating. Harry has missed it here, so much, and it feels like the entire forest is welcoming him back, muddy shoes and fallen leaves behind his collar.

Niall greets him before Harry has a chance to walk up the steps to the porch, as he runs out the door to tackle Harry to the ground within seconds, shouting his name at an ear-splitting volume. 

"Hey, Ni," Harry laughs, patting his friend on the back as he inconspicuously moves his limbs to check for broken bones. "I've missed you." 

"We missed you too!" 

Harry chuckles and shoves Niall off of him, trying to brush dirt and leaves off his clothes as he stands up. "How have you been?" he asks, offering Niall a hand as he splutters something about rude werewolves.

"Not much happening," he shrugs, starting back towards the house. "I failed a class, Louis burned a pot. Nothing about the Swifts." 

Inside, the house welcomes Harry with the familiar smell of boy and stale pizza. Said boys are all lying on various surfaces in the living room, eyes dead as they watch infomercials. 

"Hiii," he says, waving. Liam perks up a little as his gaze warms, and sends Harry a wave. Zayn doesn't move the arm he's slung over his face, but he does call out a "hi, Harry". Louis, closest to the door with his eyes closed, ignores him completely, but the smirk on his face is all Harry needs. 

"Are you having a wake?" 

"Nah," Niall answers him, still loud as he walks in with a bowl of popcorn, "they just woke up. Losers."

"It's nine in the morning, Ni, please go fuck yourself," Louis quips, voice lacking its usual bite. 

Niall shakes his head. "Harry said he was coming at nine! You should've been waiting for him at the door."

"That's really not necessary," Harry laughs, feeling warm even in the breeze coming through the cracked window. "Do you want breakfast?" 

Niall hugs his giant bowl protectively, but the rest of them visibly perk up – Liam even goes as far as sitting up and saying "yes, please". 

Breakfast it is – Harry gives his all to make a full English worth getting out of the living room for, and he gets what he's been hoping for; an adorably sleepy, stumbling pile of werewolves and one hungry-looking human shuffle into the kitchen and take a seat at the table. 

Louis immediately steals the entire plate of bacon, piles seven slices up into a crooked little tower, then steals eggs and tomatoes right from under Zayn's nose. He's only stopped when Liam, who’s pouring himself a mug of tea, narrowly misses stabbing him in the hand with a fork. 

Harry eats leaning back against his chair, surveying the picture in front of him. He loves being domestic, has since he was a kid, and he can't help imagining more mornings like this, cooking breakfast for his mates to enjoy.

(And maybe he's thought of an alternate version, too, where nobody's awake yet and he puts breakfast on a tray and carries it to his bedroom, except it's not his anymore because it's _theirs_ —and he may have thought of a person he'd like to fit into that blank, human-shaped space. Except that might not work now, because who he has in mind is not quite human, but. He'd make do.)

When everybody's sufficiently awake, after tea and coffee and dessert consisting of old winegums per Louis’s request, Niall takes his leave. He goes around the table bumping fists and kissing heads and hugging, and Harry gets all three. They all go stand on the front porch to yell byes after him and wave until he gets lost between the trees. It's lovely. 

Harry spends the day, joining everyone in their holy mission to watch every single episode of _Cupcake Wars_ in one sitting. It’s lovely and comfortable and so, so familiar, but there’s a restlessness buzzing right underneath Harry’s skin, a mix of fear and anticipation that intensifies every time he looks out of the window. The sky goes from pale morning white to the bright blue of midday as the sunset gets closer, as an ache settles deep in Harry’s bones. He can’t put it off any longer. 

Eventually, just as the horizon is starting to bleed orange, Harry clears his throat.

“What is it?” Zayn asks, buried somewhere on the bottom of the puppy pile. 

“I, uh. Any chance you could help me with, you know - werewolf stuff?” he asks awkwardly. 

Louis snorts. Liam, looking scandalised, whacks him upside the head.

“Right,” says Zayn, and disentangles himself with a lot of effort. He looks meaningfully at Louis and Liam, and the three of them have a conversation with their eyes (werewolf mind-reading powers).

Finally, Zayn grabs Harry and, holding hands, they walk out into the back garden. Harry can't help being at least a little bit excited when he notices Louis following. 

"Okay," Liam says once they've all settled on the ground, looking at him. ”Harry, you probably found this somewhere in the books I lent you. The shift from human to werewolf and back is not that difficult to master on ordinary days, but on the full moon, the wolf tends to take over no matter what, without permission."

Next to Liam, Louis rolls his eyes. Harry narrowly stifles a giggle. 

"To get the same control over you full moon shifts, you need to find an anchor," Liam says next. Harry perks up.

"What kind of anchor?" 

"It can be anything, really," Louis takes over, and everyone quiets to listen to him. "A physical thing, a person, an emotion, a memory, literally anything. It just needs to be something strong. You're anchoring the human part of you, so that you don't lose the connection and let the wolf take over completely." 

"Okay," Harry nods slowly, mind spinning. "Any advice on where to start looking for one?"

*

The full moon hanging in the sky haunts Harry as stands by the living room window. Its glow casts a patchwork of blue light over the entire room, painting the walls with a foreign brush. It's dark already, and he's still good. He's shifted several times, and now he's human - he’s been holding on.

If he's completely honest with himself, Harry has no actual idea what it is that's keeping him anchored. He hadn't even noticed the moon come out, too caught up in watching people bake on the telly and moaning about joint pain with the boys. By the time they pulled the curtains open, the sky was already an inky black and Harry still had two legs, even though he hadn't had any time to focus on finding an anchor.

They're playing cards now, switching from snap to poker with magic stars instead of chips, and Niall is Skyping in, moaning loudly about how he doesn't get to have any fun. According to Liam, this is what they usually do on a full moon – have a quiet night in, then head to bed early. It seems surreal, in a way, that this is easily what they could've been doing last month while he was down in the basement, at war with himself. 

Bizarrely, Harry is a little excited by the thrum of power in his veins, hungry for freedom, contained and shut away until he calls on it. He's drunk on it, on the strength of his will, even if he doesn't know where it came from. The human part of him is shouting at him to be rational, full of anxiety and apprehension, and he decides to push it away, just for tonight, just until he's ready to take it all on again.

As the night goes on, they get a little tired and a little feral; their eyes flash at each other in the dark like marbles, shiny and invincible. At one point, Liam catches Zayn's nape between his teeth, voice a low growl as he tells him something about grocery shopping, like what they're doing is an everyday occurrence. The tabletop gets scratched, a cushion loses most its stuffing in an unfortunate accident that involves a bet with Niall, and it is, all in all, not the night Harry had been expecting. 

And when Louis leans over to him, sharp teeth on display, blue eyes alight and mischief in his voice, Harry can't remember anymore why this is a bad, bad idea. Wordlessly, he gets up and follows, letting the wolf rise to the surface as a new sun, a better one, rises over him and Louis. On the back porch, the night is cold, but each other's presence is enough to keep them burning. Their paws fall simultaneously in the crisp leaves, start a slow, languid pace as they tease and string each other further, deeper. 

Down at the very end of the garden, they're so far away the house is barely visible. Harry wants to howl and leap for joy; it's just him and Louis now, just the two of them under the endless blanket of the night, and he can't fathom why he'd ever thought that scary. Louis is so warm, so wonderfully inviting, he smells like the woods and everything that Harry wants to be close to. It's all so simple, now, that he can, and he will. 

He takes a step, then another, and puts his head on Louis's nape without a sound, neck wrapping around neck, heady pulses colliding. Louis huffs a warm breath into Harry's fur, relaxing and setting his head down, too, a pleasant weight against Harry's shoulder. 

Harry is the first one to nip, a small one with just his front teeth, but enough for Louis to round at him, growl and leap playfully, happy fire burning in his eyes. It's easier to read him as a wolf, somehow. 

They chase each other up and down the garden, breakneck speed sending leaves flying behind them in a flurry, until Harry’s feeling exhausted and entirely too human. Louis, furry and so hot he has steam rising off of him in the night air, slumps against him as Harry shifts back, barely aware of the cold ground biting into his naked arse. Louis covers him like a blanket, covers him in heat and scent and for a few seconds, Harry feels _his_. 

That's what he wants, he thinks; to be marked, to belong, to have nobody question his loyalty because his scent has interwoven with Louis's and he can no longer tell them apart. 

"Look at how beautiful the stars are," he murmurs, lying back and stretching, body aching in a pleasant reminder of their game. On the off chance that Louis would be short with him again tomorrow, all Harry would have to do is flex his muscles, and he'd remember being right here, right now, in a moment frozen in time with how peaceful it is. 

Louis listens, turning over onto his back, paws folded close to his chest. His eyes are awake and alert, and so, so human.

"My gran taught me some of the constellations," Harry says. Louis rumbles in response. 

"That's the Little Bear, see?" Harry moves impossibly closer, tufts of Louis's fur brushing against his naked side, and raises a hand to point. His thumb covers the small rectangle of stars and stays there, a part of the sky for a small while, a part of the reflection in Louis's eyes. "And that's the Great Dog. Looks just like you." 

Louis's nose nudges him in the cheek, cold and wet. 

"Oh, look, that's Cassiopeia," Harry continues unperturbed, happy to spot the familiar little zig-zag of stars. "Andromeda. And the Pegasus," he goes on. 

The stars stretch above them like a blanket, lending Harry a sense of safety as he launches into the tale of Queen Berenice and her hair. Next to him, Louis's ribcage trembles with every breath he takes, and he's so undeniably, unmistakably real.

Later, when they trudge back in, muddy and tired, Harry will try to head to the guest room, and Louis will block his way. With damp fur and bright eyes, they'll curl up on the living room carpet, just for a while until Louis relents, and the morning will catch them bright and warm with their hands in each other's hair.

*

A few weeks later, Harry decides that the house needs to be fixed up. His suggestion is met with little enthusiasm, and Louis lets him know, in a few choice words, that he's free to do whatever he pleases, but he's not getting any help.

Still, Harry is happy to be given free reign, and spends half an afternoon digging up and dusting off any useful equipment he can find, hidden well in nooks and crannies all over the house. Then, he sets his sights on the back porch first, and calls his mum to ask for renovating tips. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Zayn asks him, two days after he's started putting the steps back in working order. His foot had fallen through the rotten wood at least a dozen times before he'd gotten used to avoiding all the holes. 

"Of course," Harry mumbles and looks up at Zayn confused, several nails held tight between his lips. He's got his hammer poised to strike. "Why wouldn't I?"

"No reason," Zayn answers, sitting down on the creaky garden swing (that one should be next, Harry thinks). "It's really nice of you." 

Harry shrugs, tensing for a moment before bringing the hammer down, a sure stroke that drives the nail right in. "I'm here a lot, if you haven't noticed. It's not like I won't get anything out of this." 

"True," Zayn says. Then, after a beat of silence: "Louis really appreciates it too, you know. He's never liked this place much because it was so run down, but he never felt like fixing it, so." 

"Okay," Harry drawls, breathing shallow because he won't let his pulse quicken at the mere mention of Louis's name, that's _pathetic._ ”I mean, I'm glad he appreciates it. Why exactly are you telling me this?" 

"Just thought things changed a bit between you two." 

Liam chooses that moment to finally come outside from behind the glass door where he'd been eavesdropping. He sits down quietly next to Zayn, looking for all the world like he's been there the whole time. 

"I guess," Harry says, not wanting to talk about it, but at the same time feeling like he's going to burst if he doesn't tell someone. 

"I mean, you were sleeping together after the last full moon. On the ground. Naked."  

Harry pouts. "I thought nakedness was a natural werewolf thing."

"It is," says Liam, _giggling_ , "but we don't sleep piled all over each other while naked." 

"We weren't piled all over each other," Harry says lightly, trying to line up his next plank. "We fell asleep. We shifted during the night. We kept sleeping. The end." 

"What did he say when you woke up?" Zayn asks, genuinely curious.

"Um. Good morning?" 

For some reason, this sends them both into a fit of laughter. Harry frowns and goes about assembling his step. 

"Did he actually?" Zayn asks eventually, wiping a an actual tear from the corner of his eye. 

"Yes," Harry shoots back a little sharper than necessary. "It's the polite thing to say." 

"Listen, Harry, be honest with me," Zayn leans forward, chin resting on his interwoven fingers like he’s a detective from a bad TV series. "Do you want to get into Louis's pants?"

Harry sits back on his heels. Thinks, shrugs. "I reckon yes." He doesn't even have a reaction, which is a testament to how far he's come in his late night thinking/wanking sessions. 

"You reckon yes?" Liam's eyebrows furrow. 

"Well, I mean, that's not the primary goal." 

"Okay…" Zayn drags out, waiting for Harry to elaborate. 

"I just think it's great when he's happy, you know?" Harry indulges him with an absentminded answer, lips quirking up at the ghost of Louis's smile that always lingers in his memory. 

"Oh my God, you can't be serious." 

"What?" 

" _You think it's great when he's happy_ ," Zayn repeats.

"What, like you don't?" Harry counters, giving up on concentrating. He plops down in the damp grass instead, looking up at Zayn curiously. 

"Sure. But you'd like to make him happy _and_ get in his pants. That's some pretty serious stuff right there," he says wisely, barely holding back a grin. 

"What do you want me to say?" shrugs Harry. "I really like him. I think about snogging his face off a little too much. There's not much more to it." 

"Oh, I think there is," Liam says, smiling just this side of mysterious. "You need to keep us updated on this." 

"I don't _need_ to do anything," Harry quips moodily. He takes the hammer back in hand and starts tapping it against the newly laid wood. "Besides, Louis can speak. Why don't you ask _him_ invasive questions?" 

"He's not the best with serious conversations, to be honest," Zayn says, like it's news.

 "There's a lot of things I don't know about him, right?" Harry asks, and Liam gives him a look, like it's impressive that Harry isn’t holed up in his room making friendship bracelets. Harry does have common sense. He realises that Louis and he aren’t all chummy now just because they spent a night rolling around on the floor naked. He totally does.

"Yeah," Zayn says, gentle, "but it's not—he's hard to understand, Harry. He doesn't keep things to himself on purpose, he just forgets he has somebody to listen to him." 

It leaves Harry with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, the idea that Louis forgets he's not alone when surrounded by people like these. "You don't have to explain, Zayn, I get it. We've only just started talking like civilised people, I doubt he's confiding his greatest secrets in me anytime soon," he says instead. "Or ever." 

"Don't talk like that," says Liam and frowns. "You could be exactly what he needs." 

"Needs for what?"

"I don't know," Liam shrugs. "To be happy, for once in his life." 

Harry has an answer defending Louis on the tip of his tongue – how some people have things that weigh on them so heavy they just can't let themselves be carefree, and how Louis seems to be coping well enough, but then he realises the boys he's talking to have been Louis's friends for years. It's safe to say Louis doesn't need defending in front of them. 

"That's sad, though," Harry says, when the contemplative silence becomes too much. "That he'd have to depend on a person for happiness. Especially a person like me, I mean…" 

"You're fixing up his house just because you feel like it, Harry," Zayn says. "I don't think you're the worst bloke around." 

"That wasn't the point." 

"Yeah, I know," Zayn sighs, picks up one of Harry's spare nails and twirls it between his fingers at mind-boggling speed. "But it's better than him staying miserable forever. Just," and he looks up at Harry with an urgency in his eyes, almost pleading, "try not to give up on him when he's a shit, yeah?"  

"You haven't," Harry points out. "What makes you think that I would?"

Liam smiles at him, sparks of laughter exploding in his eyes like sunlight. Zayn reaches out and ruffles Harry's hair. 

"We really like you," he says. "Please stay around." 

"You just like the food," Harry says, smiles. He feels settled and calm, like he fits in. Like he's found a niche for himself in the world, a place where he belongs without feeling guilty for taking up the space. 

"We do," Liam confirms, reaching down to his feet to hand Harry a new plank. They watch him work in silence, conversation rising and petering out again, warm and comfortable like embers in a fire, until dusk starts falling and Harry has to get back to the city.

*

Late in November, as the nights get colder and Harry starts staying over more often, Liam sees him doing yoga one morning and insists on joining in. To Louis's annoyance, and the displeasure of all the lecturers whose classes Harry keeps missing, it becomes a regular thing.

Harry's amateur renovations are still going on. He's painting the banister on the back porch now, before it starts snowing in earnest, he still babysits Lux, and he keeps writing essays last minute and losing sleep, but he always, always finds time to come up to the house. It's the most important thing in his life, really, that place and the people in it, and he'll be damned if he lets his focus on that slip. Harry likes himself, and wants to take care of himself and keep himself happy - this is his way of doing just that. 

"Alright, downward dog now," Harry says, breathing out and changing positions smoothly. Next to him, Liam staggers a little on his toes before he bends over and puts his palms on the mat. 

"Straighten your—"

 "Back, yeah, I know," Liam huffs, trying to do so. "Hinders good breathing."

Harry is pleased to see all his little pieces of advice taking root, the same way he flushes and stutters when Liam thanks him over and over again because his back pain is finally gone/he feels so much more energetic/he can bend in half and put his palms full on the ground, now. If Harry's honest with himself, he's not used to people taking him seriously in yoga, much less thanking him; he'd taught a yoga class to pre-schoolers, the summer before he went to uni, and there, it was all about running around and snack breaks. He'd absolutely loved it, guiding them through imaginary trips to rain forests and the bottom of the ocean, but there's something intensely validating in teaching yoga to an adult. 

It's also a lot of fun, because Liam's coordination is about as bad as Harry's. 

They're holding the pose, Harry breathing evenly and Liam dripping sweat next to him, when somebody wolf-whistles from the doorway. Harry opens his eyes to a view of an upside-down Zayn. When their ten seconds are up, he turns around and gives him the finger. 

"Mountain pose," he calls out to Liam, who nods and scrambles to stand up. He's been getting better, and his balance doesn't waver at all now. Harry mirrors him, balancing on his feet, closing his eyes and listening to his own breathing, to the pitter-patter of rain against the windows.

“So," he says conversationally to Zayn, "any particular reason you're wandering around ogling your mates' bums on this lovely Sunday morning?" 

Zayn has the decency to flush, but he doesn't comment. Harry does wonder about him, sometimes. "I'm picking Louis up from work," he mumbles, bringing the set of car keys in his hand into Harry's view. 

Guiding Liam into a tiger, Harry sends Zayn a thumbs-up and a wink, and watches him, blushing, walk out the door. 

"That was mean," Liam huffs, face red. Harry throws a spare headband at him. 

By the time Louis and Zayn come back from the bookstore – because that's where Louis works, Harry has learned – he and Liam are lying down in the middle of the living room, trying to breathe, and Niall has shown up to cackle and throw grapes at them. 

Louis's face is fond as he looks over the scene in the room, a smile tugging at his lips as he takes off his jacket. Zayn comes in to steal bits of Niall's breakfast, and when Louis leaps like a monkey and lands straight on Harry's chest, nobody finds it the least bit strange. 

"Get off, 'm sweaty," Harry mumbles through a mouthful of Louis's hair, and the smaller boy giggles and plops right next to him, the line of his body still pressed against Harry's side. 

"Bloody yoga bears," Louis shakes his head, trying to sound stern, but his expression gives him away. Harry's been getting used to seeing that face, all flush-cheeked and crinkly-eyed, and knows that past him was right when he'd thought that Louis should always smile. It suits him like nothing else does. 

"Piss off," Liam says good-naturedly, and gets up to head into the shower. Harry thinks he'll do the same, once he musters up the will to move. 

“I can’t believe it’s fucking raining again,” Niall grumbles when silence falls over them. “I wanted to go out.” 

Louis opens his mouth, presumably to fondly point out that none of them get out much. Before he can make a sound, though, he freezes and stares, dumbfounded, at the window. 

There is water still trickling down the pane, but behind it, the sun is suddenly coming out from underneath a layer of dark grey clouds. The rain is gone. 

Niall blinks, a little startled, and looks down at his hands where they’re buried in the fruit bowl. Harry stares at him; Louis is still gaping with his mouth open and Zayn stands frozen in the doorway, a bottle of water halfway to his lips. 

After a long, excruciating silence, it’s Niall who speaks. 

“So," he clears his throat. “It’s a beautiful day, apparently. What are we doing?" 

They end up mucking about in the forest. Liam chases squirrels. Harry and Louis chase each other. Niall walks through the mud with Zayn, foggy breath and thick scarves the picture of a long-suffering couple taking a morning walk with their unruly family of canines. 

That's how December starts, and Harry, quite naively, thinks all of it is going to be fairy lights and happiness. He's wrong.

*

Things go to shit exactly on December 7th. It's a day like every other, a cold Saturday that has flowers of frost blooming on windowpanes and clouds of smoke and steam hovering over London, millions of people chasing the heat of a long-gone summer.

Harry is walking through the frozen forest alone, on his way to the house. It's early, even for him, and all he can think about is lighting a fire in the fireplace, putting the kettle on for tea and frying rashers upon rashers of bacon. One could say that he's lost in his thoughts, really, which is why what happens doesn't even register with him for a good ten seconds. 

He doesn't feel the pain, just an odd pull on his jacket. There's a strange dark spot on his left shoe as he stops and looks down, and small beads of red melting the frost on the ground, smudging into the dead foliage underneath. Harry realises what it is, and then realises he can't breathe. 

There's a single set of footsteps approaching him, coming in from the left, and he wants to turn and investigate, see who the unfamiliar scent belongs to, but as he tries, the white-hot agony finally explodes behind his eyelids. He looks down—down to an arrow that’s somehow embedded in his side. Removed, he has time to think about the pretty white fletching and the beautiful, slick black material it's made of.

"Well, well, well," a voice says, the worst of film clichés, and he rotates his entire body to meet whoever's shot him head-on. 

It's a woman, tall and beautiful, with a face as cold as the morning around them. She's wearing sleek black clothes and a woollen hat, a few strands of blonde hair escaping to tangle around her ears, and lipstick as red as the blood she's drawn. 

"Look who we have here," she says, a mocking smile on her face, and lowers her bow. It's a formidable thing, tall and dangerous-looking, and reality starts to sink in with Harry. She _shot_ him. She shot _him_. _She shot him_.

"You shot me," he says, voice impassive as the second wave of pain hits, a hit to his knees so strong he has to lean against a tree. He gasps, and tries to remember what he knows about werewolf injuries. He recalls a line he'd read in a book exactly, _remove weapon if stuck in the wound_ , remembers what Liam had told him his very first night of being a werewolf. All of it just comes and goes with the blood that rushes through his brain, and he can't focus on anything. Not on being alone, not on thoughts of running or attacking; of the werewolf lair that's just around the corner, the one that he can't let her know about. 

"That I certainly did," she says, raising a perfect eyebrow at his hand that's shot up halfway to his wound and frozen. "I'll be honest, I thought it would take more than one little arrow to put you down." Belatedly, Harry realises that her accent is distinctly American. His first and only bizarre thought is that Louis would laugh at how pretentious she sounds, and Harry would elbow him and remind him of his own accent, and then they'd laugh, and _oh_. Louis. The boys. The house. That's where he'd been going. 

Finally, blessedly, Harry wakes up. The forest comes to him in a flurry of blinding white frost and rusty blood, noises and smells surfacing to paint him a complete picture. Despite the pain every movement causes him, he grips the shaft of the arrow as tightly as he can and yanks. 

This time, he does fall to his knees. The head of the arrow doesn't budge an inch, but it hurts everywhere, lighting up nerve endings Harry didn't even know he had. The arrow is lodged right underneath a rib, a professional shot, and Harry is sick to his stomach thinking of this sleek, icy woman and how good she is at shooting people.

"Honey," she laughs, a sound like glass breaking and cutting into skin, and comes closer, boots sinking into the soft forest floor. Harry looks up into her cold, cold eyes. "Come on. Who do you think I am? Unless you're going to cut yourself open with your little baby claws, you're not getting it out." 

She knows he's a werewolf, and it doesn't surprise him at all. "Who are you?" he grits out, breath heavy and white, clouding his vision. "What do you want?" 

"You may have heard of me," she raises a delicate hand to her eyes, frowning at a chipped nail. "My name is Taylor. It's a pleasure, Harry." 

Harry grunts in response, looking for escape routes behind her back. His only option is to try to run the way he'd come, towards the city, but he's not sure he can get up, and she's blocking his way. 

"Now, now. Don't be upset. You should calm down, otherwise the wolfsbane will spread that much faster," she looks at him amicably, laughing at him like he's a child that doesn't yet understand the world. 

When her words register, Harry freezes. Wolfsbane, meaning one of the only things that can kill him if he gets too close, and he reckons having a poisoned arrow release it into his bloodstream is plenty. He's stuck between a rock and a hard place, now; he needs help from someone who knows what they're doing, but the only ones who could help him he can't call on. 

"I'm guessing you're not calling your little pack yourself," she frowns a little, a harsh line across her delicate brow, and crouches down to look deep into Harry's eyes; his vision is blurry with sweat and tears, but the hatred aimed at him is still painfully clear. Taylor reaches out, small hand bypassing Harry's as it grips the shaft of the arrow, and smiles as cruel as Harry's ever seen. Then, she _twists_. 

Harry tries to stop the howl of pain, but the wolf, too, is struggling to break free and defend itself. The sound is loud, like a gunshot in the still, bright morning, startling birds out of their nests. _Please don't come_ , Harry thinks desperately, _please leave me_. He's going to die without their help, he knows now, but the vision of any of them stumbling in surprise as an arrow lodges into their chest only makes him more determined. He's shaking from the pain, muscles quivering, and all his warmth is leaving him rapidly.

"That should do it," she says, satisfied, and sits on the ground opposite Harry, looking bizarrely innocent, like kindergartener at story time. "Now we can have a chat before your precious Louis comes by to save you." 

Harry's heart twists, gripped by blind panic, but the adrenaline is not enough to get him off the forest floor. "N-no thanks," he coughs, and stains his hand with blood. He can feel it trickling out of the corner of his mouth. 

"Oh come on, don't be like that. I've been curious about you for months." 

"What?" Harry slurs, a metallic taste drowning his tongue. 

"Of course you haven't noticed," she laughs, sharp like shards of broken ice. "You poor idiot. I've been watching you since you were bitten. A little pet project, if you will. I knew they'd take you in, and I knew it'd only be a question of time before Louis accepted you as his own. He really wants to be an Alpha, did you know that?" 

Harry shakes his head, chest heaving. He's teetering on the edge of a panic attack, _it's all your fault_ like a mantra running on repeat in his head. 

“I guess that's irrelevant anyway. He's never going to be one unless he lets go and realises that killing others is a necessary evil. Like you, poor, pretty Harry," she runs an ice-cold finger across his cheek. "You're going to die, and he'll blame himself. Maybe he'll go crazy. Who do you think will go first? My bet is on the Horan boy, he always lets his guard down around werewolves. What an idiot. We've offered him a place with us several times, you know, he's really good with a bow, but he said he'd rather die than betray his friends. _Friends,_ Harry, how laughable is that? Like any of you are even remotely human," she sneers, and the look she gives him is one of pure hatred. 

Somehow, through the weight of guilt that's settled on his shoulders and the haze of pain that makes his vision go black around the edges, Harry has a moment of clarity. 

"You're one of the Swifts, aren't you," he says, and it isn't a question. 

"Well, yes," says she, taken aback, "I thought that much was obvious."

Harry musters up the energy to laugh. It's a hollow sound, bitter and void of any joy. She seems delighted to hear it. 

"Are you excited? I'm excited. Imagine taking down Louis Tomlinson, the most composed werewolf in all of England, the one that gives everybody the slip. I'll be the star of every party. Mom might even let me hang a trophy of his head on the wall." 

Horrified, scared and dying, Harry calls on every ounce of flickering power that his wolf can give him. With an inhuman growl, he lets it take over, claws shooting out, and lunges. 

She shrieks at first, surprised when she falls on the ground under Harry's weight. His hands are still human where he's pushing her into the floor by the shoulders, but he can feel the golden fire burning in his eyes. He bares his teeth, poised to close around her neck, but he knows, feels down to his core, that he can't do it. His mind is full of images – blood, arrows and knives, Louis falling to the ground screaming, and still he's hovering, hesitating, and it costs him. 

Taylor pulls out a short dagger from beneath her belt, back to being composed as ever. It glistens darkly for just a moment, a flash of the future that Harry is powerless to control, before she drives it into his other side, down to the hilt. 

Harry whines, the strength going out of his limbs as he slumps to the ground again. The arrow moves uncomfortably when he reaches for the dagger and pulls it out, and finally snaps off with a crack when Harry crushes it in his fist. He's dying, covered in frost and feeling the life drip out of him; he'd like to do it with a little bit of dignity.

 "Pathetic," she hisses behind him, getting up and checking herself for injuries, looking petulant. Her voice pulses like the poison rushing through Harry's veins, and he belatedly realises that nobody's come, still. Maybe they haven't heard, maybe they've abandoned him, and he wants to cry with happiness and pray that that's the case. There's no helping him now; they’d be coming to their deaths. _Please stay away_. _Please forget about me. Louis, please._

 __"I've had it with you," Taylor says, closer this time, looming above him as she turns him on his back with the tip of her shoe. "You're obviously not as important as I thought, and you're only causing trouble. I think I'll go find them on my—"

She never gets to finish. Right in front of Harry's eyes, in bizarre slow motion like he's in a bad action film, she's swept to the ground by a heavy canine body. The grey fur shines brilliantly with ice crystals, a light in the darkness that's overtaking Harry's world. _Louis_. 

Harry can't talk through the panic gripping him as he lies there, _completely fucking powerless_. He can't shout to him, can't tell him to please run and leave him be, that he's not worth it, he can't do anything but turn his head and watch.

The usually beautiful, serene face of Louis's wolf is twisted into an angry grimace, growling right into Taylor's face. She looks manic, arms moving like a grotesque snow angel as she tries to get a hold of one of her weapons. She manages to escape, somehow, throwing Louis off and running for the trees, where her bow had been. She's right within Harry's reach, he could just stretch his arm and she'd stumble, but he can't _move_. 

Louis chases after her, eyes virtually blazing. His paws are heavy and slippery on the mud and leaves, stealing his momentum as he tries to yank the girl back by her jacket. She gets there first; she picks up the bow with trembling hands, loads in an arrow and sends it flying before she's even aimed properly, anywhere that Louis is after her like a ghost. 

When Harry concentrates, he can hear the shaft as it spins through the air, now. If the arrow had been flying all the way to him, he could dodge it; Louis can't. It hits him straight in the shoulder, light grey bleeding red, but doesn't even seem to notice, like the chase is the only thing on his mind. He looks deadly, and absolutely terrifying as he stares her down, chasing away the victorious look she'd been sporting after she hit him. He has saliva pooling at his mouth like a wild animal, steam rising off of him where he crouches low to the ground, feral, stalking his prey. 

"You wouldn't dare," Taylor says quietly, less than a breath. "They'd hunt you down and kill you all." 

Louis barks in response, nothing like the peaceful, playful wolf Harry is used to. The sound comes out of him like he's being torn apart from the inside, saturated with a desperation, a thirst for blood. Taylor takes her bow and bolts. 

Harry can't keep up as they run in circles around him, running away until all of their sounds fade, then running back like visions from the fog. After the third time they disappear, Louis comes back stained with blood, two more arrows sticking away from his body at a sickening angle. He can't run anymore; he stops in front of Harry instead, chest heaving, and locks his legs, standing splayed wide and protective. Harry is losing the fight for consciousness, losing his grip on reality and on life; but when Louis looks at him over his shoulder, bleeding out just to keep Harry safe and keep him alive, it ignites a new fire, a last call for Harry to stand up and go down fighting. 

The wolf roars inside him, blood red rage, and Harry shifts like today was just another day. His bones rearrange, wounds stretching, an arrowhead moving sickly in-between his ribs, but he manages to stand. He plants his paws wide and strong, and stands shoulder to shoulder with Louis. They must make a pitiful sight, covered in blood and trembling, but Harry's never felt stronger. 

When she finally catches up, Taylor has a halo of blonde hair flying around her head, hat gone, and shallow, long scratches that run across her thigh, trousers slit. She grins in victory at the sight of Louis, and raises the bow, one last arrow pointing right at his heart. 

Time and space narrows down to the tip of the arrowhead, a shining point of focus as Harry digs his claws into the dirt and leaps, one last time. She lets the string go in surprise, arrow shooting straight out where Harry is gunning for it from the side. He doesn't care about her and her knives, focused on the sound the arrow makes as it slices air. It's easy to pin it down, know exactly where it will be when its trajectory collides with Harry's. He only has that one chance, completely exhausted, blank and bled-out as he is, but he's standing between Louis and death. Failure is not an option. 

Slowing and letting his paws slide smoothly through the slippery dirt, Harry opens his mouth just a little, cold air hitting his teeth. One more step takes him right where he needs to be; he listens, focuses, and clamps down around the shaft of the arrow. It tears at the inside of his mouth, slices coldly across his tongue – and stops. 

"No!" Taylor screeches, so loud Harry's entire world resonates with it, but he doesn't care for the pounding in his head. Limping, in excruciating pain with every step he takes, he walks back to Louis and drops the arrow at his feet. Then, feeling satisfied, he slumps to the ground and lets go. For a moment, he feels like he's looking at the world from outside himself. 

Taylor is reaching for her boot, to pull out another dagger, probably – but she doesn't get to. Another arrow flies with perfect aim, clean and sharp through the air, and embeds itself in her calf. More blood graces the ground and soaks in like rainwater.

Floating as he is, Harry looks in the opposite direction, and what he sees steals his breath clean like a punch. Niall is just stepping out from behind a tree, planting his feet sure and firm, a bow taut in his hands. He's shaking, vibrating almost, but his hands are steady where they're holding back another arrow. 

To Harry's surprise, Niall doesn't look like a soldier at all; his eyes are the furthest thing from cold. From across the space, they burn bright like supernovas, with a fire like Harry had never seen before. It's protection, and love, and Niall blends into the forest so seamlessly he looks like a vision, a ghost maybe, a knight that's come to save the day. He holds himself tall and proud, quick and lethal, and Harry is so grateful to see him he could cry. 

With poorly contained sobs of pain, Taylor hurls the dagger at Niall with everything she has, but she misses. The blade flies widely by Niall and stays stuck fast in a tree, a final period after the story. 

"I'll kill you _all_ ," she warns, pale and defeated for the time being. She gathers her bow and slings it across her back, turns around and starts limping away, little cries of pain accompanying her exit through the trees. As soon as she's gone, a still silence settles over them. It feels like shock. 

Harry watches the world around him flicker, like somebody was playing with the light switch. Everything gets darker, and even in the brightness of the morning, it looks like night. Hazy, Harry watches Niall drop the bow without a second thought and run over to where they're lying in a pile. 

They probably look pitiful, Harry thinks; Louis's legs have given out, and he's taking shallow breaths with his eyes closed – Harry is stuck somewhere between life and death, and keeps flickering in and out of his body. 

Just as Niall falls on his knees next to them, hands running over wounds that are long past being helped, Louis shifts, and Harry's body, like the lost, confused puppy he is, follows automatically. It wakes him up a little, enough so that the light comes back into his eyes, and he can get a better view of Louis's life leaving him. On his other side, Niall is moving him as carefully as he can, getting ready to carry him, and Harry. Harry knows there's no time. 

He throws his head back, rising on his trembling arms, and howls with everything he has. He's calling his pack, he realises, even though they're just a bunch of rag-tag wolves with no Alpha and no order. He's calling home. 

“Harry, fuck. Thank God," Niall is saying, face pale and drawn, the fire in his eyes flickering. He's taking them both in, the wounds and the blood and the tremors, and he looks like he's on the verge of crying. Niall should never look like that. 

With a sudden fit of coughs, Louis comes back to them, if only for a while. He fists his hand in Niall's jacket, and his other one crawls across the frozen ground until it finds Harry's. Their fingers intertwine, and it's warm enough to melt everything around them. 

"Harry," he rasps. Harry's heart is pounding in his ears, so loud he can barely hear, but. He never wants his name to sound like that, especially not on Louis's lips. 

"M' here, Lou," he whispers, all he can do as his lungs start failing him. He thinks he may have imagined it, but he knows what he sees right then, delirious as he is – Louis smiles, weak but genuine. He squeezes Harry's fingers. 

"I know," he says. "I'm proud of you. You did so well, Pup." 

Harry didn't think he had it in him to cry, not anymore, but his eyes burn and so does his face and his ribs are on fire. 

"You did well," Louis repeats. It's the last thing he says before his eyes close again, and he stops breathing. 

Harry is still holding on, kept awake and alive by sheer panic. His eyes meet Niall's over Louis's prone body, and Harry thinks, _I can't let this happen_. He's the one who's supposed to die, the one who should already be dead. He'd wished, even, for a while, to just close his eyes and be carried away, cradled in the softness that unconsciousness offered him. 

Now, though, before he goes – and he has no doubt he will – he needs to do some carrying first. 

There's no time, absolutely none, they've run out and turned the clock around a hundred times already, and they need to _go_ , they can't wait anymore. Harry's world is bleeding red and black when he takes Louis, just takes him in his arms like he weighs nothing, stands up, and starts running. He won't make it far, will probably fall down right around the bend, but. The closer he gets Louis, the better his chances. He can feel the arrowhead rattle against his bone, and his only thought is that he doesn't care. If he could give his life just so Louis could take another breath, he'd probably do it, right now. 

He ignores Niall shouting after him, focused on cradling Louis so that he doesn't move, so that his injuries don’t get worse. He makes it to where the forest floor starts sloping up, can almost smell the scent of old wood and home, and he spurs himself forward, one more time. His hands are cold, and so are Louis's. 

Harry runs, and thinks he can hear Liam and Zayn running, too. He hears Zayn shout, and the growl of Liam's wolf, and Niall's terrified yelling. Before his vision goes completely black, he sees them round a dense group of trees, sliding towards him in a rush of frost and ice-cold panic. Niall finally catches up, calloused hands supporting Harry where he's leaning and falling backwards, and in front of him, Zayn and Liam are taking Louis from his arms. 

As he finally, finally sinks into the darkness, all Harry can think is _I made it_.

*

"Ni, come on. You can't do anything else for them, they're just going to sleep."

"I can't just _leave_ them." 

Voices are the first thing that registers with Harry where he's lying on something heavenly soft. It's Zayn and Niall, and they both sound tired and upset. Harry wrinkles his nose and frowns. He can smell blood in the air, so much blood, and something cloying and dark, like poison. But, as he slowly comes awake, he smells the fire, too, and hears the familiar crackle of it where it burns in the fireplace. The scents of the house are wrapped around him like a blanket, calming him, letting him know that everything is alright, and he's so, so comfortable. He's not at all sure what happened, and not at all sure that he cares. 

"Harry?" Niall's voice says, shaky and echo-y in the still room. 

"I'm awake," Harry confirms, trying to open his eyes. His lashes feel stuck and sticky, lids heavy. Waking up is hard work. 

"Jesus, yeah," Niall answers as he comes closer, a warm hand running across Harry's forehead, then gripping his wrist like he's afraid to let go. "How are you feeling?" 

"Really comfy, actually." 

"Can you open your eyes?" Zayn asks from somewhere above him, and Harry frowns. Of course he can, and he does. 

His surroundings come to him in a slow blur of shadows, all darkness and heavy, warm colour, and he needs to blink a lot before anything comes into focus. There's Zayn, hair drooping sadly over his forehead, standing right above Harry and looking at him with apprehension. He recognises the shadows around him as the living room, bathed only in the warm light of the fire. 

"I think so," Harry answers, once he's made out where he is. He's not sure, but he thinks he sees Zayn's eyes glisten suspiciously where he meets them with his own, a little more alert. 

At his other side, Niall sobs. It's a desperate sound, absolutely gut-wrenching and irreconcilable with Niall's happy attitude. Harry immediately turns his head, hand shooting up to tangle in Niall's hair. 

"Hey, no," he says lowly, confused and worried. "I'm fine, you're fine, we're all fine, it's all okay." 

Niall's face is red with equal parts tears and embarrassment when he raises his head to meet Harry's eyes. He's wiping at his cheeks with his free hand.

"Can I please give you a cuddle," Harry says, hands itching to comfort Niall in any way he can. He hates seeing people cry, and he hates seeing Niall cry even more. It shouldn't happen, not ever. 

Wordlessly, Niall moves closer, snaking his arms in-between Harry's neck and the pillow he's lying on. He buries his face in Harry's chest, voice still loud and shaky with tears. Harry holds him the best he can, so, so confused. From above, Zayn's hand cards through Harry's hair comfortingly, rubbing in small, affectionate circles. 

"We were really worried, Haz," he says, and Harry moves a little to look up at him. Niall sniffles in agreement. 

"I don't remember what happened," he says, and a deafening silence answers him. Niall stiffens and pulls back, holding the corner of Harry's comforter to his face, and Zayn holds on to Harry's shoulders. 

"Nothing?" Niall asks, voice strangled.

"No." 

"You…Harry, you were attacked." 

Harry frowns, trying to pull up a memory, anything. "What? How? When?" 

"Yesterday morning," Zayn says, walking around the sofa to join Niall on the floor. He rests a hand on Harry's chest, right above where his heart is beating, loud and steady. His eyes are big and liquid in the absence of light. "You were shot." 

And—oh. Harry thinks there's something, in the back of his mind. A quick sound, something slicing through the air, like—

An arrow. It comes back to him in terrifying flashes of blood and desperation. He starts shaking, but he doesn't care as he shoots up, bracing himself on his arms. 

"Where's Louis," he says, trying to catch his rapidly escaping breath. Zayn and Niall are looking at him, crestfallen and gentle, and Harry thinks he's going to pass out. "Where is he? Please tell me he's okay. He's fine, right? I ran—I carried him all the way—" 

He physically can't go on, has to lie back and focus on pulling enough air back into his lungs. Everything is trembling, like all the world's an earthquake. 

"No, Harry, God," Zayn runs warm fingers over Harry's face. "Louis is right here." 

He doesn't say anything about him being fine. Harry notices, but doesn't comment, not right now; he needs to get up, start breathing, he needs to _see_.

"I need to—" he starts, gesturing wildly with his hands, but Niall and Zayn are already moving to help him prop himself up. His gaze is searching every nook and cranny of the living room, frantic, through a pile of torn, bloody clothes and the crackling fire and—

There he is. He's lying right next to Harry, on a fat mattress running horizontal to the sofa, and he looks—he looks _dead_. 

"Is he—," Harry breathes, with trouble. 

"He's alive, Harry. Please don't pass out." 

Harry nods, and itches to come closer, to touch and smell and watch Louis's chest until he can see it rise with a breath. "Why is he like this?" 

"Well, he did take three arrows," Zayn says drily. As if sensing that Harry needs it, needs a little help and reassurance, he stands up and goes to Louis. He puts a strand of hair behind his ear gently, pulls his blanket higher and rests a hand to his chest, just like he'd done to Harry. "Laced with wolfsbane." 

"Right," Harry remembers. "Fuck." 

"Yeah," Niall agrees, still crushing Harry's wrist in a death grip.

"Is he going to wake up?" 

"We don't know," Zayn says sadly, coming back to them. "We weren't sure you would." 

"I didn't—was it that bad?" 

"You had seizures. You kept saying that you're going to die, and that you can't see anything. We thought you'd be blind if you woke up at all." 

Harry remembers, the thoughts of dying and letting go, but he can't recall anything past meeting Zayn and Liam on the hill and sinking into the blackness. "Am I okay?" he asks. 

"You should be, in a few hours," Niall says. "We countered the wolfsbane and your werewolf mojo is doing the rest." 

It's only now that Harry thinks to check himself for injuries. He's shirtless under the blanket, and the room is cold despite the roaring fire. When he runs a hand down his side, he only feels a small scar. Above his hip, where the dagger was, he's met with smooth skin.

"I thought we didn't scar?" 

"We don't," Zayn says, distracted, looking out into the kitchen. "It's the poison." 

Before Harry can answer, Liam is stumbling into the living room with a steaming mug in his hands, beaming. 

"Harry!" he calls, obviously overjoyed, and Harry can't help his answering smile. "I'm so glad you're awake, here, drink this," he's handing the mug to Harry, hands only shaking a little. He seems more animated than usual, and a little nervous, eyes darting from one side of the room to another. 

"Li, calm down," Zayn takes Liam's wrist with a touch so gentle it's barely there, and Liam haves a heavy breath. 

"Yeah, yeah," he's chuckling as he sits on the floor, completing Harry's wall of personal guards. "I'm just—" he waves a hand around his head, "you know." 

"It's good to see you," Harry tells him nonsensically, but means it with all his heart. The way he'd felt when he saw Liam's wolf run towards him still throbs in his chest, a gratitude so great is hurts a little. 

"You too," Liam smiles. "Drink." 

"What's in it?" Harry sniffs suspiciously at the steam. He smells tea, but also a mix of foreign scents, heavy and aromatic.

"Just some herbs," Liam answers. "To support healing, help you relax, that kind of thing." 

"You mean knock me out," Harry quips, even as he raises the warm ceramic to his lips. 

"You need it!" 

"Yeah, I suppose," Harry says, feeling the hot liquid slide easily down his throat, spreading through his limbs all the way to fingertips. It's immediately calming, and Harry marvels at the magic. "Wow. Where did you learn to make these?" 

Face half-hidden in the shadows, Liam blushes a little. "It's really not that difficult. Louis taught me." 

With the mention of his name, the mood in the room shifts rapidly, as if everyone's just remembered. They all watch Louis quietly for a while, holding their breath whenever his chest stops its lazy movement of up and down. 

"Lads," Niall says, so quietly Harry thinks he's probably relying on their werewolf ears to pick it up, "what are we gonna do without him?" 

Liam frowns quite violently, and Zayn reaches over and smacks Niall on the head. 

"Stop it," he says, stern like Harry rarely sees him. "He's going to be just fine. Thinking anything else right now is gonna drive us all crazy." 

Niall nods and looks down at his hands. Harry realises he's forgotten something vitally important. 

"Niall," he says, and waits for the other boy to look up at him. " _Thank you_." 

"Don't mention it," Niall says, a bitter smile twisting the corner of his mouth. "I didn't do much." 

_Oh_ , Harry thinks. It makes a lot more sense now, Niall crying at the sight of him awake, the way he's been avoiding everybody's eyes. 

"You saved our lives," Harry nods in Louis's direction. "Neither of us would be here if you hadn't shown up when you did." 

"I should've been there sooner," Niall mumbles, and Zayn's hand moves to rest on his shoulder in silent support. "Louis called me, told me to come as quick as I could, but he didn't explain and I wasted time trying to find out what was happening, I should've—"

"Niall," Harry says, gentle, sets his mug on the ground and puts warm hands on Niall's face. "I was going to die. I saved Louis from that last arrow, and I couldn't bring myself to do anything else. I couldn’t—I could barely breathe, I couldn’t do anything, but then you showed up and you gave us _hope_ , okay? I never would have stood up again if you weren't there. She would have killed us both." 

Niall's eyes are big and hopeful and almost pleading, the flames from the fireplace playing on his face. "Louis wouldn't be like this if I'd been there sooner," he says, almost imperceptible. 

Harry shakes his head. "Louis wouldn't be like that if I'd never shown up here. It's more my fault than yours, so just…please try not to blame yourself, okay? Louis will tell you the same thing when he wakes up." 

Niall nods, and reaches up to hug Harry again. Harry holds him, calm and steady, trying to somehow reassure him that everything is okay despite not feeling that way at all. It breaks his heart to see Niall like this.

"Harry," Liam says quietly when they let go, atmosphere still somber. "You said…you said you saved Louis from an arrow. What actually happened down there?" 

Startled, Harry remembers that none of them were actually there, except for Niall, at the end. He's not quite sure he feels up to retelling the story, but somehow, it's so, so important that they all know what Louis did. How brave he was, how he didn't question protecting Harry for a second, how readily prepared he was to face down a woman armed to the teeth to protect Harry when he was helpless. How they pulled each other through until they couldn't.

"She's been…oh God," Harry gasps, the details of Taylor's terrifying monologue coming back to him. Guilt slams into his chest like a freight train, and he finds he can't look at any of them. "She's been watching me ever since I was bitten," he whispers, shock thrumming through his veins, the expected mantra of _it's your fault_ settling comfortably in his head, latching onto his every thought. 

"Why?" Niall sounds like he's frowning. Harry closes his eyes, knows that if he doesn't say it, they'll figure it out anyway.

"She wanted to get to Louis. Said something about taking down the famous werewolf, she wanted to kill him and was waiting until she was sure he'd come help me if I was attacked." Tears sting in nose. "I fucked it all up," he says, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, making spots dance in his vision like fireworks, happy and carefree in a way he might never be again. 

"No. Harry," Zayn is saying, firm fingers circling his wrists, bringing them down and revealing Harry's tear-stained face. "No. You're so good—you're the best thing that's happened to us in a long time. Don't you _ever_ doubt that." 

"He'd be fine, though. If I wasn't here, he'd be fine," he says, copying Niall's words almost exactly. 

"And he'd be a miserable bastard," Niall counters, some of his familiar determined fire sparking back up in his eyes. 

"Yeah," Liam agrees, and next to him, Zayn is nodding thoughtfully. 

"You may not have noticed this because you don't live with him," he says, "but he's been…different. Happier." 

“That doesn’t have to be because of me," Harry points out, dabbing at his damp face self-consciously with the corner of his blanket. 

"Don't be ridiculous. He literally perks up every time you enter the room. Last week, he just watched you fix the garden swing for an hour before he came out to talk to you. He's never sat that still for that long, for as long as I've known him. You're good for him, Harry, alright? God knows he wouldn't admit it, because he's a stubborn little git, but he likes having you around."

"Maybe," Harry concedes. 

"For sure," Zayn jabs him in the chest as hard as he dares. "He's not as lost in his head when he's around you, and we've all wanted that for him for a long time." 

"Good. Now that that's done, please continue with the story. If you want,” Niall says, scooting closer, and runs his hand through Harry's hair in support. Harry really likes being touched.

"There's not much to tell," he shrugs. "She shot me, then she made me howl with pain, and, uh…she talked about killing Louis. I got really angry and got her on her back, but I didn't do anything. She stabbed me, and that's when Louis showed up." 

"What did he do?" 

"He jumped at her, took her down," Harry frowns as he tries to clear the image in his memory. "She shot him, too, and he chased her through the forest, I'm not sure what happened, I couldn't see—and he came back with two more arrows in him. He couldn't run anymore, so he stood in front of me, to protect me, and she was gonna fire another arrow, so I just—I don't know. I thought I couldn't let her kill him, so I shifted and I caught it."

"The arrow?" Liam asks incredulously. 

"Yeah," Harry frowns, "It wasn't that hard, I could hear it pretty clearly."

Zayn and Liam are both looking at him silently, inscrutable, and Harry doesn't like it at all. He fidgets, nervous. 

"He did, I saw that," Niall says suddenly, smiling at Harry. "Snatched it clean out of the air like it was nothing." 

Harry coughs. "And then we both collapsed. Niall showed up, shot Taylor in the calf, and she ran. That's it, pretty much." 

"What about after?" Zayn asks, curiosity written over his face. "We were waiting for a signal from Louis, but we heard you instead." 

"Y-yeah, I. Um. I don't know. Louis shifted, so I did, too, and it gave me a bit of energy, you know? I thought there wasn't time to carry Louis all the way to the house, so I called you, and I picked him up and I ran." 

"Nearly gave me a fucking heart attack," Niall grumbles. 

Harry smiles at him, "Sorry." 

"Nah, it was—you did the right thing. A minute later and he would've been dead for good, and I could never have carried him as fast as you did." 

"A minute later?”

"You cut it pretty close, Haz," Zayn tells him, gentle as ever. "Once the wolfsbane reaches the heart, there's not much you can do. When we got you here, you were both dead, we had to bring you back." 

"Didn't really think we could," Liam says quietly, eyes trained intently on the floor. Zayn takes his hand, fingers interlacing, and squeezes. Harry takes a moment to be eternally grateful for him, the eye in the middle of a storm. 

"But you did," Harry smiles. His heart beats that much stronger, knowing how easily he could've been gone. "Thank you." 

"No, thank _you_ ," Liam smiles back, voice a little unsteady. "You saved him, and yourself. I don't know what we'd do without either of you." 

Everything inside Harry feels soft with love, quiet and content and calmed with the presence of his favourite people in the world. It feels temporary, but he’ll take it anyway. 

”Any chance we could have a cuddle?" he asks, and the grins that meet him light up the room. 

They pile onto Harry's sofa, all of them, a wild tangle of limbs and smiles and affectionate pats. Niall is breathing right into his ear, and Liam's leg is wedged under his quite uncomfortably, but it's the most peaceful he's felt in a while. He never stops thinking about Louis, lying there looking so, so cold, and vows that, whenever Louis deems it appropriate to wake up, he's going to hold his hand and never let it go.

*

Louis doesn't wake up. Not the next morning, and not the morning after that, not for the entire week. Liam takes on the responsibility of getting liquids into him, and Harry helps check on his slowly healing wounds whenever he can come by. They walk through the living room on tiptoes, not wanting to upset the delicate balance of his breath, but the more time goes on, the more desperate they are. Harry's seen enough hospital films to know that Louis's chances are getting worse every day.

Often, all of them just sit there, spread on the window seat or the armchairs, holding Louis's hand sat on the carpet and kissing him on the forehead; wiping their faces when they think the others aren't looking. On Friday, Harry comes over with an overnight bag and stays up all night in the living room, trailing his eyes over Louis's deathly pale skin. 

When the house is as quiet as it gets in the night, Harry lays his head down on his folded knees and cries. It's disgusting, really, all salty tears and snot, and he wastes an entire box of tissues while he tries to calm himself down. He's just so sick of it, is the thing. Sick of worrying constantly, and not sleeping, and of the black hole that expands in his chest a little more every time he looks up to Louis's eyelashes still resting on his cheeks. In his less rational moments, he's _angry_ at Louis; angry at him for being dumb and heroic and trying to save Harry’s miserable existence. 

It's a rollercoaster, and it's too much to keep inside, and so on Saturday, his second night with no sleep, he starts talking. 

"Hey, Lou," he says as he crawls across the carpet, exhausted, and takes Louis's hand. It's as cold as it was back in the forest, the last time Harry had seen his eyes, and he misses them so badly it makes his voice cloy with tears all over again.

"You know what they say about coma patients? How they can hear what people tell them even though they're unconscious? I mean, I don't know if you're the same, maybe you're just sleeping off the poison, but if you hear me, I have something to say to you." 

He takes a shaky breath, wiping his face. It feels like he hasn't stopped crying yet, not since an arrow punctured his bubble and brought down his entire world. 

"If you can hear me _, wake the fuck up_. I swear, Lous, I'm—" he sobs, loud and desperate and not held back at all. "We all miss you. We— _I_ miss you so much. It's so dull here without you, and I hate seeing you like this. You'd hate it, probably, you look horrible, mate."

He chuckles, watery and weak, and there's no conviction behind it, no joy the way there would be if Louis just opened his Goddamned eyes. 

"You saved my life, you know?" Harry's voice softens, barely audible as he looks down at their intertwined hands, at Louis's limp fingers between his. "You—I don't know why you'd do that, really, I was annoying the shit out of you just a few weeks ago. You'd probably laugh in my face if I called you brave right now, but—well. I'm crying over you like we're in a soap opera, I reckon I'm allowed to say what I want. Unless you feel like waking up and talking to me, which you're welcome to do."  

Silence answers him, and he's not surprised in the least. He wants to reach into Louis's mind, or his heart, wants to _pull_ him out with sheer force of will.

"Louis, I—" he stops, again, and cries, still. Thinks that this is the best occasion, really, with nobody there to—to be. To sympathise with him and put a consoling hand on his shoulder, because it makes him feel selfish for wanting Louis back just as much as they do. "I just really want you back here with us. I want to see you laugh – I compared your laugh to fireworks in my head, once, did you know that? You get those crinkles around your eyes, like you're the happiest you could ever possibly be, even if I've just said something stupid."

"I've always wanted to meet someone who laughs at the giraffe joke," he huffs, remembering. He had finally fixed the garden swing on the back porch, touching the ground with just his tiptoes, swinging them back and forth, Louis's feet flying next to his completely off the floor. It had been like magic, making Louis laugh with a joke he'd made up as a fourteen-year-old. He'd felt himself fall a little, then, and he was powerless to stop it. 

"And you owe it to me, you know. You owe it to me to wake up. I'm not done getting to know you yet," Harry smiles, runs a finger down the elegant slope of Louis's nose. "I'm not done cooking you a full English for dinner whenever you feel like it." 

It's been raining outside for hours, big drops of rainwater pelting the windowpanes. It's the only sound in the room as Harry breathes, uselessly trying to compose himself. 

"Just. Wake up, okay? For me. Am I allowed to ask for that?" 

Louis's face is cold and impassive, but looking a little healthier where the orange light of the fire Harry's got going hits it just right. He doesn't answer. 

Out of words, Harry bows his head, leaning his forehead against the rough fabric of the sofa by Louis's hip. The usual warmth that radiates off of him is muted, almost gone, and Harry wants to take those last pieces of it and cradle them close. 

Louis's hand is still in his, veins on the inside of his wrist pulsing with life. Harry is too exhausted to hold on to consciousness for much longer. He makes himself get up, check on the front and back doors, turn off all the lights and make sure that Louis is as comfortable as he could possibly be. They've turned him on his back for the night, and Harry has an easy job pulling the blanket higher to cover his pale, naked shoulders. When he's done, he settles back down right by the sofa, head next to Louis's where his breath ruffles Harry's hair, alive; a reminder that Harry needs for when he inevitably wakes up from a nightmare. 

He laces their fingers together again, letting himself be hypnotised by how right they feel, slotted together like this. When sleep starts clouding his brain, tuning out the sound of crackling wood without his permission, he sighs and gives in, bracing for the impact. 

He's woken up hours later, fire gone out, but it's not a nightmare that has him jumping up in a panic. It's movement. The hand that's wrapped around Harry's is squeezing in staccato bursts, small muscle twitches. When he strains his hearing, Harry thinks he can hear Louis's heart pick up pace, and his sunken cheeks gain a little colour. 

He gets up on his knees, turns around to touch Louis's face. He's not imagining it; it's warmer. 

"Lou," he says, nothing more than a reverent whisper, and watches Louis's eyes start rolling in their sockets. Louis's eyelashes tremble, rise and fall back down, and it's the most movement Harry's seen in him through the entire week. 

"Lou," he repeats, a little louder, hoping that maybe, if Louis is somewhere close to the surface, he might hear, might listen, might come back. "Hey, Louis, it's me." 

Louis squeezes his hand, so tight Harry hears his own bones creak. Tears of pain spring into his eyes, but it's a good thing – Louis still having superhuman strength, even when unconscious, is a good sign.

As Harry kneels there with baited breath, nothing more happens. Louis's eyes calm down after a while, still and hidden beneath his eyelids again, and his taut muscles relax back to let his body sink into the cushions. 

His skin is still warm, and a little blush has risen high on his cheeks. The hand that's still in Harry's doesn't let go.

*

Louis wakes up in the morning, together with the sun. It's early, no later than six, and Harry is the only one downstairs with him. He's been dozing in and out of sleep throughout the night, head falling to his chest and shooting back up with dreams of arrows, of Louis dead, Louis torn up, Louis wounded, and Harry standing over him with claws dripping blood.

Harry is jostled awake when Louis starts moving in earnest, like he's just waking up from a particularly long nap. His first instinct is to squeeze Louis's hand, groggy as he tries to wipe the fitful sleep out of his eyes, and it takes him a second to realise what's happening. 

"Louis," he near gasps, free hand flying up to clamp over his mouth. 

"Mmrf," Louis responds. 

Harry feels like he's been standing underneath a tsunami wave for days now, unable to move and waiting in suspense until it crashes down on him and sweeps his entire world away. The feeling of watching Louis come out of his too-long sleep is the water, finally falling down, cold over Harry's head, drowning him and moving through his body with enough force to make him shake. It spreads down to the tips of his fingers, the cold, and it sets him ablaze with a flame that feels blue. He cries, or maybe it's just the water on his face. 

"Louis," Harry rasps again, trying to hold his head above the water. "Hey." 

In a gentle sweep Harry had thought he'll never see again, Louis's eyelashes rise. The shadows on his cheeks retract, making way for light as Louis opens his eyes. His gaze stays fixed on the ceiling for a while, pupils dancing wildly, and he looks frozen, like his body hasn't quite caught up. 

"Har—" Louis starts, but his voice gets caught, and a dry cough racks his entire body. He looks so small, so gaunt and fragile, and Harry wants to shield him from the world. 

"It's me," Harry says, his entire body trembling as he runs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he comes back, Louis is looking around, confused, eyes slow like he doesn't know where he is. Harry doesn't have time to worry about what the wolfsbane may have done to him; he needs to take care of Louis, make sure he's comfortable and settled and has everything he needs. He needs it for himself as much as he does for Louis. 

"Here," Harry tells him softly, fingers wrapping gently around the back of Louis's neck, raising his head. "Drink this, you'll feel better." 

Wordlessly, Louis feebly leans up on his elbows, and lets Harry bring the glass to his lips. Harry watches his Adam's apple bob as he drinks, tries to take all of Louis in at once. The fact that he's _moving_ , slow but animated, makes Harry want to never stop crying. 

Once the water is gone, Louis lies back down. His eyebrows perform an elaborate dance on his face, like he's trying out all his facial muscles, then he turns his head to look curiously at Harry. He looks a little like a small animal in the ZOO, bug-eyed and terrified of its surroundings. 

"What the fuck happened to me." 

Harry can't help it, he really can't, and he quickly wipes at his face as more tears fall when he grins at Louis. He hadn't fully realised before, how all-encompassing the emptiness had been, how much it was tearing him up inside, watching Louis prone and lifeless.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asks, resting his hands on the sofa, as close to Louis's body as he dares come right now. 

Louis scrunches up his nose and wiggles his fingers. "I think so? I feel like I slept for a year." 

"You slept for a week," Harry corrects, and observes the startled look on Louis's face. 

"Seriously?" 

Harry nods. "You had a lot of wolfsbane in you." 

"Wolfsbane? What—" and then his entire face changes, mouth falling and settling into a thin line, brows furrowing above dark eyes. "Oh. Shit. Wow. That actually happened?" 

Harry tilts his head, considering. "Yeah." 

In a show of strength Harry wouldn't have thought him capable of, Louis puffs and huffs until he's sitting, leaning back against his pillows. He's looking at Harry the entire time, his eyes pleading, somehow. 

" _Harry_ ," he whispers, saying something Harry doesn't understand. 

"Yes?" 

"Harry. Fuck. I—" he bows his head, hands running through his hair, frustrated. "Thank you." They're strong words, with worlds of meaning behind them, and Louis looks so genuine, so insistent as he stares straight through to Harry's soul. 

"Thank _you_. You're the reason I'm here right now," and Harry needs to stop crying, he really does, but it seems like the only logical thing to do. His feelings are a hurricane, picking up speed and leaving confusion behind. 

To his entirely genuine shock, Louis takes Harry's left hand in his, intertwines their fingers like it's the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is. He shakes his head softly, a small smile on his face. "I meant what I said, you know. Back in the forest. You did such a great job looking after yourself, and I'm proud of you." 

Harry's vision blurs. "Lou," he murmurs, and he doesn't know what he's doing, but. His face is buried in Louis's chest, somehow, and he's sobbing so hard he's shaking down to his bones. Louis is saying Harry's name softly above him, small hands running through Harry's hair, but he's just—so embarrassed. And so comfortable, and so, so happy. 

Louis surrounds him, anywhere he turns. His scent is filling up Harry's nostrils, rubbing off on his clothes, and it feels like something is breaking, small cracks that run through Harry like spiderwebs. His heart hurts. 

"Shh, hey, come on," Louis is saying, Harry realises when the sobbing tapers off into sniffles. His death grip on Louis's shirt loosens, but he doesn't let go, doesn't think he'll find it in himself to let go ever again. 

"'M sorry," he mumbles where he's pressing his face against Louis like he can't believe he's real. 

"No, love, it's okay, nothing to be sorry about," Louis sounds like he understands. Harry has a small, small hope, burning bright deep inside of him, that Louis just might. His hands are on Harry's cheeks, his neck, everywhere that's flushed and damp with tears, drawing gentle circles to soothe him. It works, and Harry settles down, breath by breath. 

"Where is this coming from?" Louis asks, impossibly quiet, like he wants Harry to open up, to talk. 

Harry shakes his head. "I was really scared." 

Finally, he peels away, looking in shame at the big, wet blotches on Louis's shirt. He can't, _won't_ meet Louis's eyes, and there's something fragile between them that he has trouble figuring out. 

Louis's fingers snake along the sides of Harry's face, tilting his gaze up until he meets Louis's. His eyes are glistening, too. "I'm sorry I scared you." 

"Not your fault," Harry sniffs, rubbing his aching nose with his sleeve. "I'm sorry for—this." 

"Don't be," Louis says again, simple, and his hand finds Harry's. Harry feels so inexplicably close to him, now when he could just reach out and touch any part of him. 

"Okay," Harry says. Louis rewards him with a smile, all canines and crinkles. 

"Okay." 

They sit in silence for a while, just looking at each other. Harry is looking because he can't quite believe what's just happened, and that Louis is alive, and that this is Harry's life. Louis has probably found something between Harry's teeth. 

Eventually, Louis clears his throat.

"Um. I, uh, understand if you don't want to talk about this, but…" Harry squeezes his hand, a silent encouragement as well as a reminder. "What happened after I passed out?" 

"Oh," Harry recoils a little with the icy slap of reality. "Not much. I, uh, I called Liam and Zayn and carried you a little ways up to the house." 

"You carried me," Louis repeats, raising a skeptical eyebrow. 

"Yeah," Harry says, a little defensive, a little playful. 

"Harry, you were…" his gaze travels down Harry's body (and Harry flushes, yeah, whatever) to his side. "You had a broken arrow sticking out of you." 

Harry shrugs. "Adrenaline." 

"You idiot," Louis says, and it sounds so incredibly, irrepressibly fond, "You coud have killed yourself on the spot. _You could have punctured a lung_." 

"But I didn't," Harry replies, holding fast and brave against Louis's imploring gaze. "And the boys said we got here just in time, so." 

Louis raises a hand, small in Harry's periphery, and smiles at him the way he rarely ever does. His features are soft, almost blurred, like he's looking at Harry from behind a milky pane of glass. His fingers are small and nimble where they run over Harry's forehead, tangle in his hair and stop to cradle his face in dry, warm palms. For a few seconds that feel like years, Louis's blueblue _blue_ eyes hold Harry's captive, a gaze that's filled with crackling electricity and overflowing with emotion. Harry wants to kiss him so badly it hurts. 

What he gets instead is Louis leaning forward, eyes closed peacefully as he kisses Harry on the forehead and lingers. His lips are soft and crackled; they're the best thing Harry has ever felt. 

When they pull away, something has changed between them for good. Harry feels it in the air around them, a shift in the atmosphere and in the way they look at each other, with things between them that only the other will ever know. It's a warm spring shower of rain where there was ice, a sunrise after a night that lasted for too long. It's familiar, and gentle, and so very welcome. 

"So," Louis says, sitting up straighter and trying to work the kinks out of his back. "I'm assuming the others are having a jolly good time sleeping." 

Before Harry can answer, there's a shaky voice coming from the doorway. "Not quite, dickhead," Zayn says, and Harry is not surprised to see his eyes brimming with tears. He still hasn't stopped crying himself.

"Zaynie-poo," Louis says, blinking exaggeratedly, but the smile that lights up his face is almost grotesque with how wide it is. Harry watches the crinkles etch themselves into his face as he shuffles to the side to give Zayn some space. He smiles at Harry gratefully, then crosses the living room in three steps and falls into Louis's arms.

Liam and Niall aren't far behind, brought downstairs by Zayn's swearing and Louis shouting affectionate nicknames. Somehow, they all dissolve into a sobbing mess, piled all over each other on the sofa with Louis on the bottom. Somebody's tickling him, and he's yelling right into Harry's face and gasping for breath; Zayn has a hand wedged in Harry's crotch, Niall is crying all over Harry's hair, and Liam is uselessly trying to kick them all off so he can check on Louis.

 Soaked with tears and snot and love, Harry can't help thinking that this is exactly the way it's supposed to be.


	2. Chapter Two

One could say that things soon go back to normal. Unless, of course, one is Harry Styles. As life goes on, nothing _abnormal_ happens, per se, but Harry starts experiencing…things. 

He's back to spending every free moment he has at the house, running through the forest quick and silent with his head hung low. Liam forces him to do yoga almost every other day, Niall keeps bringing him printed out recipes of things he wants Harry to cook, and Louis is really fucking distracting. 

And, see, that's the thing. Louis. His general existence suddenly becomes something that Harry can't ignore, no matter how hard he tries. Where he'd deliberately avert his eyes before, he now stares so often even the other boys have started noticing. His gaze gets randomly glued to the sinful line of Louis's arse, the gentle dip of his hips, the spark in his eye when he switches salt for sugar just before dinner. At first, Harry had thought he was just glad that Louis is alive and well, as much of a menace as he was before everything happened. 

Except none of it went away. December is in full swing now, Harry has to study for his exams, and still all he can think about is would-be manly scruff and blue eyes. He has no energy to fight it. He's always been a fairly self-aware kind of guy, accepting of his slow speech and weird quirks, cherishing them even, but when he realises where all this has been heading, he's shocked that he hadn't known sooner.

 _The Thing_ happens like this: 

It's a few days before Harry is set to leave for Christmas break. It's proper freezing out, now, and Liam has finally convinced him to leave the renovations of the outside of the house for the spring, which is why he has now moved to the inside. He has a pile of old picture frames stacked on the kitchen table as he cooks dinner, sorting through them while he waits for his water to boil. He'd dug them up in the attic, buried underneath layers of dust and years of memories, and he's been marking places where he thinks they'd look just wonderful. 

The boys are slowly coming home from work one by one, Niall rushing in from his last lecture with red cheeks and a lot of swearing. Everybody's been exhausted, lately, the dark, cold days taking a toll, and they all mostly eat and spend time half-comatose lounging on the sofa. It's very cozy and winter-y, and so good Harry has barely seen the bed in his own hall for the past week. 

"I got us matching ugly sweaters!" Louis shouts, the last to arrive, as he sweeps into the kitchen red-nosed and grinning. The fairy lights Harry had hung all over the house paint flecks in his eyes and colour his hair. 

Niall shouts something intelligible, throwing himself at the bulking plastic bag Louis is holding. He'd been right – the sweaters are absolutely terrible, all lopsided reindeers, creepy snowmen and blurry snowflakes. There's five of them, every one a different colour, and they immediately start clambering over each other in an attempt to get to the least garish ones first. Harry gets an accidental fist to the eye, and decides to wait it out. 

What he's left with is a screaming neon pink monstrosity, big enough that the sleeves fall down over his hands. Harry likes pink, he really does, but he still thinks clothes like this should come with a health hazard warning. 

Niall's sweater is puke green, Zayn's an awful, mustard yellow, and Liam was unlucky enough to get the brown one. Louis's is turquoise, and _fuck_ , of course he looks good in it. He's probably the only person on the planet who could. 

They all put their sweaters on, even though it's still _ages_ until Christmas (at least as far as Louis is concerned, because time apparently goes slower when one is waiting for their birthday). The wool is surprisingly soft, actually, and Louis boasts about picking out the best ones. Harry has a sudden vision of him standing in the middle of a shop, going through racks and racks of terrible Christmassy attire and touching all of it so he doesn't bring his boys anything scratchy. He doesn't fight it when his mind automatically counts him in. He likes belonging.

"What's for dinner?" Louis turns his full attention to Harry, and it's like being blinded by the sun. Harry is still not used to the easy way they are with each other now. 

"Spag bol," says Harry, inclining his head towards the stove where the sauce has been bubbling for the past two hours. "I just threw the pasta in, won't be long now." 

Louis grins (he may or may not have let it slip recently that pasta bolognese is his favourite. Harry may or may not have stored the information carefully and waited at least a week to be a little less obvious. Judging by the way Niall is looking at him unimpressed, it didn't work).

"What's this, Haz?" Zayn asks, leaning against the wall by the kitchen table, examining the empty picture frames with a curious look on his face.

Harry smiles at him sunnily. "I wanted to put them around the house, y'know, to liven it up a little. I just need to find pictures to put in them." 

Immediately, Zayn's eyes light up. "Can I paint something?" 

"You paint?" Harry asks, similarly excited at the prospect of having Zayn's loveliness present all throughout the house.

"You didn't know?" 

"You never told me," Harry pouts. Zayn smiles at him, the sparkly-eyed, cheeky smile he has. Harry definitely likes belonging. 

"Alright," he says, and starts gathering the frames. He disappears to the sound of wood clunking and the fond looks everybody's sending after him. It takes him a few minutes to come back, and when he does, it's with a fleck of paint on his cheek. Liam and Louis tease him mercilessly, but all he does is tell them he had to jot down some ideas before he lost them. 

Harry mans the stove for a few more minutes, stirring the sauce, tasting and salting. 

"Some help?" he announces to the room at large when he's done, and they all spring into action. 

It's a tradition that he'd managed to start in the last couple of weeks, one he's extremely proud of. Before Harry had come along, they lived off of cereal at all hours of the day, Mickey D's, slightly charred bacon and burnt breakfast foods of all kinds; now, he cooks for them as often as he can, and they seem to love sitting down at the table together and having a meal. Harry has never met people his age who like doing things like this _and_ don't hesitate to help with setting the table and cooking – in fact, they seem to genuinely enjoy it. Harry is on cloud nine. 

“So if you eat spaghetti all covered with cheese, hold on to your meatball whenever you sneeze," Louis is singing as him and Liam fight over the utensils. Harry's grinning at them so hard his cheeks hurt while helping Zayn put on their ridiculous bright green tablecloth. Niall takes care of lighting the candle that he keeps insisting on, walking around with a lit match just as Liam wins the fight, crows victoriously and goes about setting out forks and spoons. 

Louis stands over by the cabinet pouting, but when he catches Harry looking, he immediately turns around and starts taking out plates. He raises an eyebrow as he slithers between Harry and the table, warm and very, very close. Harry can almost feel his muscles pull and stretch as he reaches forward to set down a plate, and when he bends over a little, Harry takes a resolute step back. He does not need this right now. Or ever, probably. 

When he turns around to get to his chair, Louis catches Harry's eye. He's looking at him with the usual spark of mischief and a small bit of something else, eyes blazing blue like only his wolf can do, an idle smile playing on his face. Harry smiles back instinctively. 

It happens later, though, when they're spread out in the living room in various breakneck positions watching _Blades of Glory_. 

"I want to learn how to skate," Louis says, watching the telly upside down with his head hanging off the sofa. "Look at the bums on those people." 

Liam laughs, but Niall actually hums in agreement, moving a little closer to watch Amy Poehler in a semi-transparent dress. Niall is gross. 

"I reckon you could out-bum them pretty easily, Lou," Harry says absentmindedly, happily laying his brain to mouth filter to rest for the evening. It's only when Zayn chokes on a crisp that he realises what he's just said.

Above him, Louis is watching Harry contemplatively, eyebrows dancing across his face. He has a smile playing with the corners of his mouth, but upisde down as it is, it looks more like a frown. Unwittingly, Harry thinks about Spider-Man kisses, and how Louis likes Spider-Man, and how maybe he'd like Harry too if he played Mary Jane for a while. 

"Was that meant to be a compliment?" Louis asks, teasing, but there's curiosity in his voice. 

"Stop fishing for 'em," Harry throws back lazily, eyes already back on the TV. The film is _really_ interesting. 

"Aaw, Hazza," Louis covers a nonexistent blush with his hands. "You say the sweetest things!" 

Niall whines. "Jesus Christ," he says, looking between them like he can't quite believe this is where his choices have lead him. "Could you two please snog already?" 

Louis laughs, an easy, tinkling sound, and blows Niall a kiss. Before he remembers that it's not for him and that he's _nineteen years old_ , Harry's hand twitches a little to catch it. Maybe. A really very tiny bit. 

They go back to watching the film in silence, but Harry's eyes wander, and he watches Louis watch the film in a way he hopes is somewhat sneaky. 

Louis's face is getting red from the blood rushing through it in his position, and there are twin dark spots on his cheeks. His eyes reflect the screen and scrunch when he laughs, the light in them flickering like dancing embers, crinkles exploding. It's brilliant, really, that Harry's allowed to be here right now, allowed to share space with Louis and to see him with some of his guards down. He looks so young and happy like this, carefree, almost, with hair splayed in a wild halo all around him, his fringe ruffled and downright adorable. For the second time in about ten minutes, Harry wants very, very badly to kiss him. 

See, that's the thing; Harry's gotten used to having thoughts like that. Louis is radiant like the sun, and everyone around him is just reflecting his light. It's no wonder Harry wants to get as close as he can get. He'd thought it was a crush, mostly brought on by the fact that Louis and he were now communicating like two healthy human beings, and it'd go away in a while. Except it's been weeks, and it's getting worse.

There are all these different sides to Louis, so many things that are invisible on the first glance. He's so vulnerable, underneath all the shouting and hyperactivity, that it still takes Harry's breath away whenever Louis slips, and so _lovely_. With the boys, with Harry, with children and with random woodland animals that they sometimes scare while mucking about in the forest. Harry doesn't think he's ever met a person quite like Louis, can't even begin to compare him to anybody else he knows, and it's throwing him for a loop. 

He just wants, so badly wants, to know _more_. He knows there are big things in Louis's past, things that have permanently etched themselves into the faint wrinkles in his forehead, but he's content to let those lie until – if ever – Louis feels comfortable talking about them. No, he wants to know things like—how does Louis taste. If Harry kissed him right now, maybe he'd taste pasta or crisps or spearmint or vanilla or cinnamon; it's both exhilaration and torture, not knowing. He wants to know the sounds Louis makes when somebody kisses his neck, and the things he thinks about when he's lying in bed at night and can't sleep, and everything that's on his bucket list. 

He wants too much. 

Halfway through the film, Louis starts nudging Harry in the back. Harry ignores him, but he doesn't stop, and when Harry scoots forward to be out of his reach, he slithers down from the sofa and keeps poking, jabbing his fingers underneath Harry's ribs and into the top of his spine. If Harry said he absolutely doesn't enjoy it in any way at all, he'd be lying. 

It does get a bit too much after fifteen minutes, though. 

"Isn't your arm getting tired?" he asks quietly.

Louis pokes again in response. Eyes never leaving the screen, Harry reaches an arm behind his back and grabs Louis's wrist in a firm grip. It's probably just his imagination, but he could swear that, for a second, the wild pulse underneath his hands quickens. Before Louis can even think of engaging his other hand, Harry grabs that one, too, holding on to both of Louis's wrists. Louis sniggers behind him. 

Then, before Harry can quite grasp what the hell is happening, Louis is moving, and there are _teeth_ on Harry's shoulder. What the hell. 

"Why are you biting me?" he asks, panicked, the room suddenly suspiciously hot. Louis pokes his head over Harry's shoulder, chin resting on the spot that's damp with his own saliva. He doesn't say anything, instead smiles sunnily, wrenches his hands out of Harry's slack grip, and pats him on the chest. As if nothing's happened, he gets up and moves himself back to the sofa, assuming his previous breakneck position. 

Harry doesn't need to see himself to know his face is burning, and his heart is beating so hard everyone in the room, including Niall, can probably hear it. He's never actually had a reaction like this to anybody, ever – he's been attracted to plenty of people, sure, but none of them have reduced him to a pile of blushing, stuttering goo quite like Louis can. 

With a misguided desire to make Louis blush all pink-cheeked and pretty, Harry devises a very, very bad plan. He pushes himself up from where his limbs have gone all stiff, ignores Liam looking at him, and plants himself right next to Louis on the sofa, mimicking his position and kicking his legs up in the air. It's so very worth it for the way Louis freezes, turns his head slowly to look all the way into Harry's soul, and lets a slow smile bloom on his face, radiant and gentle. At that precise moment, Harry wants to cuddle him very badly. 

"We should put something down Liam's shirt," Louis mouth at him, grinning like a little devil and motioning towards an unsuspecting Liam who's sitting on the carpet right in front of them, seemingly engrossed in Will Ferrel's naked chest. 

Harry nods, matching Louis's grin with his own. He moves down the sofa little by little, until he can steal a packet of crisps from a sleepy Niall. Louis has both his hands pressed hard into his face, covering his mouth and trying not to giggle as Harry nudges the shiny foil until the opening is wide enough. Louis reaches for Liam's shirt, pulls hard on the collar—and before Liam knows what's happening, Harry upends the entire bag down his back. 

The room is absolutely still for a second. Then, Zayn starts giggling quietly to himself, Niall starts awake, and Liam turns around to look at them. There's nothing particularly funny about the disappointed puppy/furious woodland creature look he gives them, but Louis is close to howling with laughter, and Harry can't help joining in. _He made Louis laugh_.

After they have everything within Zayn and Niall's reach thrown at them and quiet down, Liam leaves to, presumably, change his shirt. Louis, still stifling a smile behind his hand, sits upright. Harry is looking at him from an angle that shouldn't rightfully be attractive on anyone, and yet, Louis looks almost ethereal, all long eyelashes and blue blue eyes. 

"Hi," Harry grins at him, slightly giddy and feeling like he's drunk. 

"Hi," Louis answers, reaching out a hand to Harry like it's the most natural thing in the world. Unsuspecting, Harry takes it, and finds himself being hauled up and manhandled just slightly until he's sat on the sofa properly, breathless with silent laughter and slumped into Louis's side, comfortable as can be. He doesn't pay attention to the rest of the film at all, too distracted by Louis surrounding him with his scent and warmth and safety. 

When the film ends, somebody shuts the telly off, and they're left in darkness and silence. Niall and Zayn are definitely asleep, and Harry sees Liam clamber up, rubbing his eyes, and clumsily leave upstairs. 

"Wanna go to bed?" Louis asks him, quiet and hot in Harry's ear, and Harry's brain just. Stops. 

He knows Louis is not actually inviting him to his bed, yeah, _obviously_ , but he can't help thinking about it. The image alone is enough to set his pulse racing – Louis pulling him upstairs by the hand, leaning back against the closed door and letting Harry take control, pushing him back towards the bed, pulling his shirt off—

"Pup?" Louis asks again, voice soft and tired and lovely. 

"'M too lazy," Harry mumbles from where his face is smushed against Louis's shoulder, and it's only half the truth. The second half is that he doesn't want to be away from Louis, and if that makes him a clingy embarrassing teenager with a crush, then so be it. 

"A man after my own heart," Louis says happily, and when Harry looks up at him, he's grinning. He shoves Harry gently until he falls and sinks into the sofa. Then, fast and agile like a cat, Louis stretches out beside him, pressing his back into Harry's chest, his hair tickling Harry under the chin. He's still got a soft smile on his face when he closes his eyes and murmurs "night, Harry". He must feel how tense, panicked and surprised Harry is beside him because, just before his breath deepens and evens out, his small fingers wrap around Harry's forearm and pull it over his waist. Just like that, they’re spooning, and Harry is having a crisis. 

They'd done this before, theoretically, once after that full moon, but they were wolves then, big and furry and huddling together for warmth in the cold of the morning. They're very much human now, and the moon's only just a crescent in the sky.

Louis's skin is burning hot beneath his shirt. Harry's heart is beating so fast it's about to break through his ribcage, fly out and attach itself to Louis so it can follow him around everywhere. Harry would probably like that, really, to be with Louis all the time. 

As he tries to tell himself that this is completely normal, that cuddling is a werewolf thing and means absolutely nothing in the greater scheme of things, Louis sighs contently in his sleep and moves even closer. Harry's arm tightens around him automatically, body accepting, wanting him there, and _oh_ , Harry thinks as he watches the pale skin rise and fall underneath his hand.

It makes sense, he supposes. He's had thoughts like this about Louis, but now, in the middle of the night when it's dark and he's the only one awake, it slams into his like a freight train and robs him of breath. 

He _wants_ Louis. Wants him here, now, just like this, cuddled into Harry and smiling in his sleep like he feels safe. Wants him years in the future, laughing together and chasing each other through the forest. Harry wants him sitting on the kitchen counter and quipping jokes while Harry cooks, wants him throwing popcorn at the TV when a show is on that he doesn't like, and wants him smiling indulgently as Harry lays out all his extensive renovation plans. Harry wants Louis in his life and in his heart and in his bed. It's so, so scary, and so overwhelmingly _right_. 

The fall hasn't been slow and pretty, the way Harry had always imagined it, but rather sudden and violent and unexpected; but either way, he's in love, isn't he. There's no other way he can explain all this to himself. He's treading on completely new territory, now, unexplored and incomparable to all the times he'd thought he was going to marry one of his primary school girlfriends; but maybe, with Louis solid and dependable and warm next to him as he is, he can find his way. They've been so good together lately, the dream team in wreaking havoc and bossing the boys around. They've been evolving, Harry flourishing under Louis's attention, and they've built a friendship, something tangible and real. 

Harry isn't foolish enough to think that any of that means Louis could feel the same, but. For now, it's nothing pressing. 

For now, he can wait and enjoy what he already has.

*

Four days before Christmas, Harry goes home.

It's hard, saying goodbye, even if it's only for a week. He's coming back for belated gift-giving and to spend New Year's with his four best friends, and he keeps telling himself he'll be fine, but when Niall throws himself around Harry's neck near tears, like he's going off to war, Harry has to blink rapidly to keep his composure. Even the forest around them hums, unsettled, as Niall attempts to squeeze the life out of him.

"Take care of yourself," Zayn grins at him and claps him on the shoulder, and Liam waves very enthusiastically from where he's trying to pull his car out of the mud. 

Louis runs at him, arms splayed dramatically, and before Harry knows what's happening, he has an armful of excited werewolf boy hanging off of him. Louis's legs are clamped tight around his waist and he's laughing into Harry's ear like a maniac, face buried in Harry's shoulder. He's wiggling around, trying to make Harry fall into the feeble layer of snow right in front of the house, but Harry stands his ground. 

"I'll miss your curly mug," Louis giggles into his neck, his breath leaving marks that burn pleasantly. 

Later, when Harry is finally walking away, down the muddy forest path and out of their sight, Louis clambers up on Zayn's shoulders and waves for his life; Niall is blowing him kisses, and Liam throws half-hearted snowballs. Harry grins all the way to London. 

Holmes Chapel looks quaint, almost picturesque this time of year, and Harry is welcomed by a train station completely covered in snow, looking like something out of a cliché Christmas film. Gemma had driven over to take him home and spare him from trudging through the snow, and they just sit in the cold car and hug for ten minutes. He's missed her, and mum, and Robin, missed how they used to sit down together and share a meal, throwing buttered peas and talking about their day. 

The house is warm and welcoming as usual, soaked through and through with the scent of gingerbread and pudding. Harry's mum welcomes him with a shout of "Darling!", the slightest bit tipsy from brandy, and everything slots into place. 

In the evening, they all sit down together for dinner, just like Harry had hoped. Over his mum's trademark homemade mash, he catches everyone up on what's been happening in uni (not much) and how his studies are going (not well, but he doesn't say that out loud). By the time they've moved on to dessert, the interrogation turns to Gemma. Robbin waggles his eyebrows as he asks his usual questions about a boyfriend, but this time, Gemma doesn't roll her eyes and wave him off. 

"Well, actually…," she grins. Harry perks up. 

"No way."

"Yes way, little bro, close your mouth," Gemma pats him on the cheek, only a little bit patronising. 

"Well tell us more then!" their mum says, setting down her fork, and puts her Inquisitive Face on. Harry's interested, too; he knows Gemma has dated plenty of guys, as her Facebook timeline did a terrific job of informing him, but she's never deemed them important enough to talk about them at the dinner table. 

Gemma rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "His name is Ashton. He's a music student." 

"And?" 

"And nothing, Mum. We've been dating for a few months now, and he's…really nice." She blushes a little behind the hand she's holding up to her face. Harry almost claps in glee; seeing his big sister get sheepish about anything is a rare thing. 

Mum is smiling at them both, looking a little teary-eyed. Harry makes a mental note to take the brandy away from her later. "We're very happy for you, honey. Right?" She turns to Robin, who nods as quickly as he can. 

"Yeah, Gems," Harry grins and pats her on the back. She levels him with a glare. 

"You're one to talk, Hazhead. When are you bringing a girl home to introduce to mum?" 

Taken aback, Harry sets his spoon down with a clatter. His hands are a bit shaky all of a sudden. "Um." 

"What, have you got no taste for uni girls?" she grins, and he frowns. She's being mean, and she knows it, and normally he'd brush it off and be mean right back, but now there's a stone lodged in his stomach, weighing him down, and his throat is closing up without him noticing. 

Internally, he's screaming at himself. This is not the time to say this. Hell, half of his family still don't know that he likes to go howling at the moon now, and this is a new thing, an uncertain one, something that Harry should keep to himself and think about before he makes any declarations. 

Unfortunately, his mouth is not in on the memo; he knows he's going to say it before he does. 

This shouldn't be, isn't, a big deal. He knows his family, knows they won't suddenly turn against him, and it feels a little like he's stealing something important from the people who have had years to feel confused the way he is, and years to gain the courage to do what he's going to, right now, just because he feels like it.

It's exhausting, mostly, the things happening in his head. Maybe, he tries to rationalise, if he gets one thing off his chest, he won't feel so terrible about keeping another for himself.

Either way.

"Not sure I do, actually?" he says, sounds like he's asking them instead of saying something he's thought about and mulled over extensively. Probably because he hasn't.

"Oh?" Mum tilts her head. To Harry's left, Gemma's expression is immediately apologetic.

"I mean. I'm pretty sure I'm in love with a bloke? So." He wants to high-five himself. In the face. With a chair. _Why is this happening_.

"You're not expecting us to freak out or anything, right?" Gemma asks, nonplussed.

"I'd rather you didn't, to be honest." 

"Really, baby, we're not going to. All I want is for you to be happy, wherever - with whomever - you find that happiness," mum says, smiling, just like he knew (hoped) she would. She reaches across the table to take his hand, warm and familiar like all the times she wanted to keep him close to her when he was small, so he wouldn't get lost. She's always been his guiding light, in more ways than one, and he doesn't think that's ever going to change. 

Harry isn't surprised to find that it _is_ a weight off his chest, after all. Robin is grinning at him, eating his ice cream and not fazed at all, and Gemma ruffles his hair. He wants to laugh, a little. It feels like every time he comes home these days, it's with a new secret. 

"You do realise you need to tell us who it is now, right?" Gemma turns her chair to him, putting her chin on her clasped hands like a curious child. Harry looks to his mum for support, but she has this _expression_ on her face, eyebrow raised, like she already knows. 

Harry sighs. "You don't know him, Gems." 

"And I won't until you tell me. Come on." 

" _Muuum_ ," Harry wails, a cry for help in vain. Everybody at the table is grinning at him now, having fun at his expense, and he doesn't appreciate it at all, thank you very much. 

Mum says nothing. He watches a smile spread slowly on her face, cheeks pink, until she's a second away from laughing. 

"Oh," Gemma perks up suddenly, "is it your flatmate? The ginger one?" 

" _No_ ," Harry says. "No, it's not Ed. No. Really. No." 

"Fine," she concedes. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, I'm just being nosy. The real question is, why are you not boyfriends yet?"

Harry laughs a little. "Because I don't know if he feels the same? Obviously." 

"Well why don't you ask him then?" she's looking at him incredulously, like it's that easy. Maybe it is, but Harry is a bit terrified at just the thought. He doesn't need that, not right now, not yet. Someday, maybe.

"I'm perfectly happy with the way we are now," he tells her, and deep down, he knows he's trying to convince her just as much as himself. He stares into the melted remains of his ice cream, swirling his spoon in the vanilla-flavoured sludge, and avoids everyone's eyes. 

"Oh, darling," mum says. She stands up and leans over just to pet his hair. Harry isn't five anymore, and he blushes, but he can't pretend he isn't enjoying the attention. "You know we're here if you need us. For anything." 

She's looking at him like she knows something more, and Harry supposes it's only logical – she is the only one in the family who knows about him getting bitten, after all. 

"Yeah," he clears his throat. "Thank you. Really." He feels like a group hug. He's never done it with his family, so he doesn't try, and when Gemma shoots out of her chair and starts tickling him, he figures it'll have to do.

*

On the morning of the 24th, Harry calls Louis before he even gets out of bed.

"Happy birthday!" he shouts when Louis picks up the phone, laughing already. There's noise and commotion on the other end of the line – Harry hears Niall and Zayn screaming something at each other, and Liam's helpless giggles. It's been four days since he's seen them. He misses them so much it's an actual physical ache in his chest. 

"Thank you, thank you," Louis answers, breathless. He must step into a different room, because the noise dies down considerably, and Harry can actually hear him breathing into the receiver. It's a familiar rhythm by now, the slow cadence of Louis's breath, the rise and fall of his chest that Harry still feels on his hands like a phantom. 

"How is everything?"

Louis's end of the line rustles. Harry hears him puffing as he moves something around, and then the familiar creak of the garden swing. "Well. So far, so good, I suppose. We've not killed each other yet." 

"Are you celebrating?" Harry smiles.

Louis _hmm_ s into the phone, a low sound that tickles Harry's ear. "Niall tried to make me a birthday breakfast." 

"Is everyone okay?" Harry asks immediately, only half-kidding. All of them are actually comically bad in the kitchen, and one of these days, he's going to take it upon himself to teach them _something_. 

"No worries," Louis chuckles, "I smelled disaster before anything bad happened." 

"Good," Harry says, and he's grinning so hard it hurts. "What about presents?"

He can almost hear Louis's pout over the phone. "They're all stingy and awful and said I'm only getting presents for Christmas. You should tell them something about how terrible it makes me feel, they'd listen to you." 

(Harry doesn't coo, not even a little bit. He bites his pillow in time to stop it coming out of his mouth.)

"I'm sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I got you one?" 

"But you're so far away, Hazza. How 'm I supposed to wait until you get back here?" 

"You're a child," Harry admonishes gently, and doesn't mean a word. "And you're not. I hid it in the house." 

Without him saying a single word, Harry can hear Louis perk up. He has this thing he does, where he suddenly sits up straighter and his eyes get all sparkly and if he were a wolf, his ears would probably twitch. "In _this_ house?" 

"Yes, Louis, in that house." 

"Oh," he's quiet for a few seconds. "So where is it?" 

Harry is lying in his bed at nine in the morning on Christmas Eve, smiling so hard his cheeks are starting to hurt, and it's the only place he ever wants to be. 

He'd bought Louis's presents a few weeks ago already, just to make sure he wasn't doing anything last minute. Louis didn't actually put up a list of the things he wants anywhere, and he's a difficult person to read, so it's probably, in true Harry fashion, a very, very silly gift. Still, Harry is a little excited to hear what Louis has to say.

"I _hid it_. That means you have to find it." 

"Harry," Louis crows, unamused. 

" _Fine_ ," Harry hides his face in a pillow. He quite literally can't refuse Louis anything, and it's embarrassing. "It's behind the pots in the kitchen cupboard."  

"Seriously?"

"I had to find a place you never go," Harry shrugs. There's a creak and a rustle again, and the sound of several doors slamming as Louis presumably walks to the kitchen. The rumble of voices is replaced by the telltale jangle of cookware. It sounds like Louis is literally digging through the cupboard, and Harry can't stop the laugh that escapes him at the image. 

"Hey," Louis quips, offended. 

"Sorry, Lou." 

It takes a minute, but soon enough, Harry can hear the rustle of wrapping paper. "Ha!" Louis shouts, then: "Aaw, Pup." 

Harry knows what he's looking at, now; the sloppy, soft package in reindeer-patterned paper. Harry had wrapped it himself, even put a little bow on it, and a tag that reads _happy birthday, Lou :)._

"I just—um. I'm sorry if it's not the best, or. You know," Harry says, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair, before Louis can start unwrapping it, because, well. Harry loves to give presents, and loves when people like them, and is always paranoid that they don't.

"Come on. You're the only person who got me a present. Being from you automatically makes it fantastic." Harry blushes, yes he does, but nobody is there to see him. "Can I unwrap it now?" 

"Please." 

Harry can only imagine Louis ripping into the paper gleefully, tearing through layers of tape. When the rustling stops, there's silence, nothing except the sound of Louis's breath in Harry's ear.

"Lou?" he asks, tentative. 

Louis breathes out through his nose, a small whistling sound like he does when he's surprised. " _Harry_. Oh my God, I love it." 

Harry can't read him like this, can't tell if he's being genuine or just trying, for whatever reason, to spare Harry's feelings, and he can't stand it. 

It's a fucking sweater; he got Louis a sweater because he looks fantastic in them and complains about the cold all the time, why had he ever thought this would be a good idea—

"Hazza?"

"Yeah, um," Harry clears his throat, "I'm here." 

"Don't you dare think I'm lying," Louis says, only half playful. "It's gorgeous. Thank you." 

And because he can't see Louis's expression or body language, can't get any more prompts that would let him overthink everything, he decides to trust him. Louis is always, always honest, and he has no reason to stop now. 

"Okay. I'm happy you like it," Harry says, genuine. 

"Nobody's ever got me a sweater before," Louis's voice crackles through the line, full of wonder. "It's really soft." 

Harry wants to cuddle him to death. 

"I tried to pick out the softest one," Harry says, looking up at the ceiling, like that's in any way relevant information. 

He'd spent an embarrassingly long time in the shop, going through racks and racks of jumpers, but most of them just didn't feel right. He'd wanted something to match the way Louis is when he's at his happiest; mellow and warm and wonderful, light and thoroughly happy-making, like a warm breeze on a cold morning. 

In Harry's ear, Louis laughs, gets up with a rustle, and starts talking about all the things he's chased in the forest since Harry's been gone. Given up on the thought of getting out of bed anytime soon, Harry burrows deeper into his pillows and hides his pleased flush in the pillow. 

All in all, it's the best way to start Christmas. 

Later on, after he's helped mum cook and bake and every inch of his skin is soaked in the scent of mince pies, he can't help looking outside over the flicker of fairy lights. He wonders, just for a while, if Louis is looking up at the same sky, and if, in some dream world, he might be thinking of Harry, too.

*

Niall gets Louis a puppy for Christmas.

Well, sort of. He gets a puppy to keep "around the house", a small, sickly-looking thing that can't be more than two months old. Harry thinks it looks a bit like a hairy chihuahua. 

"Oh my God," is Louis's first reaction. 

"Are you insane?" is Liam's. 

Zayn sits back, relaxed and drinking leftover eggnog just for the fun of it, and Harry, too amused to do anything but watch the situation unfold, joins him. 

The gift-giving had gone over in a mood about as calm and festive as one would expect at the Tomlinson house; that is to say, it was a complete mayhem. Harry still has meat and fruit stuck in his hair from the food fight, and Zayn is refusing to go anywhere near the tree. 

Harry had gotten them all matching wolf hats, Niall handed out boxes of some strange American sweets, Liam got all blushy when he gave them each a different personalised journal, and Zayn, who doesn't even celebrate Christmas, went with mix CDs, comics for Louis and Liam, a collection of Disney films for Harry and a set of signed guitar picks for Niall. Harry had felt more than a bit inadequate, because he hadn't even _known_ Niall plays guitar.

Louis, of course, had gotten them all hilariously inappropriate t-shirts. Every one of them had a note tied to the tag inside - Harry’s just said _thanks for everything, Pup :)_ and it made him only a little misty-eyed. 

After the gifts, they had drinks and talked like old ladies, and then Niall disappeared.

And now, there is a puppy. With a bow tied around its neck.

"It's gonna be good for you!" Niall is saying, just as Louis dares to approach the shaking, scared lump of dog in the corner. 

"We're not even sure how dogs react to us, Ni," says Liam. 

"Nonsense. Dad's done research, you should be, like, the dog whisperers." 

"Do you think he'll like us?" Louis asks, eyes big and round like a child on Christmas morning, hand reaching out slowly towards the animal. His voice is so adorably worried, like he genuinely can't bear the thought of not being liked by a puppy. 

"I'm sure," Harry says when everybody else stays silent. From the other side of the room, Louis beams at him. 

"But what do we name him?"

"Louis, we're not—are we keeping it?" Liam asks incredulously, like it's the most outrageous idea he's ever heard. "You said you didn't like dogs!" 

"I said no such thing," Louis coos towards the puppy, finally touching its head and scratching gently with his fingers. Its eyes close immediately in a pleased squint, tiny ears fluttering, and its short little tail is thumping an excited beat against the floor. "Oh, you're friendly," Louis grins at it, soft and open, not unlike the way he was with Lux. Harry can tell this isn't a usual occurrence in the house, if only by the way Zayn is smiling at the scene a little sadly.

"So we're keeping it, then," Liam says, voice lilting at the end, like it's a question. 

"Obviously," Louis answers, and that's that. 

Over the next few hours, in which Louis doesn't let go of the dog once, they argue over names. Well, Louis and the other three argue. Harry is too busy watching the boy he's in love with fall in love with a four-legged ball of fur. It's borderline ridiculous, the way Louis's eyes shine and his smile stretches just a little more every time the puppy happily licks his hand, but Harry suspects that the distinct lack of teasing from the boys is deliberate. He, too, would rather chew his own arm off than ruin Louis's happiness. 

"What about superheroes?" Liam asks, bent over the notebook he's been writing the names into and crossing them out. 

Louis, from his ruling position in the armchair, scratches his chin and ignores Liam's pleading pout. "We're not naming him Batman."  

"What about Thor?" Zayn suggests.

"Nah," Louis looks down, sticking his tongue out just a little bit and _squealing_ when the puppy immediately jumps up to lick it. "Thor's a name for, like, a giant mastiff or something."

"I still think Spiderdog would suit him perfectly," Niall pipes up from where he's laid out on the floor, surrounded by beer bottles and drinking passive-aggressively to let everyone know he doesn't appreciate them going into his secret brandy stash. 

"I know you, Niall. You just want to film a video re-enacting the Simpsons film." 

Niall shrugs and doesn't raise a protest. " _And_ brag that my best mates have a Spiderdog."

"That's sweet," Louis smiles, deliberately saccharine and fake, but there's genuine love in his expression. "We're still not naming him Spiderdog." 

"What about Loki?" Harry pipes up from his nest of blankets, probably the first thing he's said out loud in the past two hours. Everybody turns to him. 

"Loki's not a superhero, though," Liam says, his eyebrows reenacting a caterpillar mating dance again. 

"I know that," Harry rolls his eyes only a bit. "But, you know. God of mischief, and whatnot. He looks like a mischievous dog." 

Louis scrunches his nose contemplatively (adorably). "I like it." He looks down at the puppy and actually boops its nose. "What do you think? Does Loki sound alright?" 

As if feeling Louis's extremely serious words through the spiritual connection they've managed to forge already, the dog barks and starts swishing its puffy tail.

"Good. Loki it is," Louis beams up at them, smiling so hard his eyes are almost closed. "Thanks, Harry," he adds as an afterthought. 

Harry grins at him, because he can, and tries to calm himself. Louis picked the name because he liked it, not because the suggestion was Harry’s. Harry needs to get a hold of himself.

Finally able to rest now that his name was decided upon, Loki jumps off of Louis and curls up on the floor, nothing but a ball of dark fur blending in with its surroundings. Louis's arm immediately falls off the armrest, stretching just far enough so that he can scratch Loki on the back. 

Since nobody is paying attention to the telly, Harry gets up and puts on Titanic, just because he feels like spending three hours of his life watching a romantic film that will ruin him completely. Zayn and Niall groan as soon as the main menu lights up the screen. Niall then slowly collects his empty bottles and decides to go to sleep; Zayn observes the living room at large for a second, Harry sprawled out like an octopus out of water and Louis curled up with his chin resting on his knees, and grabs Liam's arm to drag him away someplace. Harry smells cigarettes before he even hears the back door close, and assumes they'll come back soon enough, but then the film is a half hour in and they don't. 

Louis seems to have realised that they're alone at about the same time. He stops the circular movement of his hand between Loki's shoulder blades, eyes scanning the patch of naked floor between his armchair and the sofa. Without a word, he picks up his blanket and the dog, crosses the living room in two strides and slumps right into Harry's side. Harry immediately flushes in the most pleasant of ways, warm from head to toe. 

"D'you think you can make it to the end?" Louis asks suddenly, a challenge clear in his voice. Grinning, Harry peels his eyes away from Kate Winslet and her sparkly dress to look him in the eye.

"I know I will. It's a matter of personal pride." 

Louis raises an eyebrow. He's mocking Harry, trying to discredit his long years of Titanic-watching, and Harry loves it. "May the better one win," he grins. Louis giggles. 

They turn back to the screen, engrossed in the film both of them have seen countless times to the soundtrack of Loki's snoring. The fire's gone out and the heating is turned down for the night, but Harry doesn't mind; he has a fort of blankets and his favourite boy warming him up from the inside. 

He watches the ocean waves shatter and roll over each other on the screen, endless and stretching into forever, and feels strangely connected to them. Now, when the ship is slowly making its way through, the waters are calm and settled, and Harry is the same. He has Louis's breaths lapping at his neck like the ocean, exciting and terrifying at the same time, and the speed of his heart rises and falls along with the waves. He feels at peace, with Louis's smiles shining down on him, making him glisten like endless water in sunlight.

Soon enough, Harry is brought out of his peaceful daze; Leonardo DiCaprio is shaking water out of his hair on the screen, looking a little like a twink lover's wet dream. Harry cannot believe he'd never realised before just how homosexually inclined he is.

Next to him, Louis whines almost imperceptibly. 

"You okay?" Harry frowns, poking a gentle finger into Louis's chest. Rumbling down the length of Harry's body, Louis laughs. 

"Peachy. He's just really bloody fit." 

Harry chokes on saliva a little, but manages to play it like a cough. Then, before he can stop himself, he opens his mouth, and words come out without permission.

"You look a bit like him," he says. His cheeks start burning immediately, even though, technically, Harry didn't say he found Leonardo DiCaprio attractive. He just said that Louis looks like him. And Louis is definitely attractive; more like scorchingly hot. Dangerously fit. Leo pales in comparison, really. 

Harry's thoughts make absolutely no sense, and he thinks that maybe this would be the right time to confess his feelings, or, alternatively, go drown himself in the dregs of Niall's beer. 

"Um," Louis says, and Harry prays that he's not imagining the slight tremble in his voice, "Thanks." 

When Harry looks over at him, he's blushing, he _is_. His cheeks are unmistakably tinted red, and half his face has mysteriously disappeared underneath his blanket. 

"So, uh," he mumbles, "do _you_ think he's fit?" It's a transparent question, absolutely blatant, and there has to be a reason Louis is asking. Harry almost has a freakout, but manages to restart his breathing just in time and steer himself away from cardiac arrest. 

He figures he's actually got nothing no lose. Louis is not going to be scared of him or call him names; that's not the kind of things Louis would do, Harry is certain. He spares a moment to think that the way he's going about this whole sexuality thing is maybe a bit cocky, but he figures it's better to just roll with it for now, and learn caution after he gets burned. Harry is like that about a lot of things.

"Oh yeah, definitely," he answers finally, eyes resolutely burning holes into the television screen. 

Louis _hmm_ s. "Everybody in the world does, probably." 

"Probably," Harry treads carefully, not quite sure of what Louis is doing. 

"I used to have a poster of him up in my room, back in Doncaster," Louis blurts out, covering his face with a small hand. It just barely spans from his bottom lip to the top of his forehead, and Harry has _visions_ , because, like. Louis's overall size may or may not be a really weird turn on for him. 

"Good for you," Harry grins. 

"Is that, like, weird?" Louis asks, a small frown overtaking his features.

 "Why in the world would it be weird?"

He shrugs. "I've been told it is." 

Harry shakes his head. "I used to have a Pokémon poster above my bed. I’d talk to it every night before I went to sleep.” And for the way Louis immediately lights up, mind spinning as all the ways he can now make fun of Harry come to life, it's definitely worth revealing embarrassing childhood secrets. 

"That _is_ a bit weird," Louis says, grinning at him. 

"Pikachu was my favourite," Harry says. "I loved Pikachu. Pretty sure I wanted to marry him, at one point." 

"I did want to marry Leo for a while," says Louis, stroking his chin contemplatively. "Then my mate Stan told me to, quote, get fucking real."

Harry snorts. "What a mate." 

"Yeah," Louis says, and his grin starts falling, little by little. Harry watches it disappear, wants to reach out and physically put the light back in Louis's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he frowns, because he feels like he ought to apologise, somehow. "Did I say something?"  

"No," Louis's hand immediately shoots to Harry's wrist, not quite wrapping the whole way around. "No, I was just—sorry." Then, avoiding Harry's eyes and speaking fast, like he's not giving himself time to change his mind: "We just haven't spoken in three years, Stan and I. Don't much like thinking about it."

Harry files it away into his obsessively kept mental folder on Louis, but he doesn't feel any joy about discovering something new.

It's something Harry never wanted to know, what sadness looks like on Louis. He's seen contempt and snark, mischief and adventure, happiness, even. Now, though, Louis has curled into himself the slightest bit, like his limbs suddenly weigh too much for his body. He's going through emotions openly, now, the walls he'd been keeping up so painstakingly in front of Harry crumbled somewhere between Harry's breakfasts and that bloody morning in the woods. He pulls a confused Loki up to his lap, running his fingers through his fur somewhat desperately. 

His eyes, though, are the worst part. They're dark blue and clouded over with a far-away ghost of a memory, full of regret and something bitter. Instinctively, Harry reaches out the hand that Louis isn't holding and lays it gently on his shoulder, fingers coming up to stroke Louis's neck, just a trace of a touch. 

"I'm sorry," he says again, because it can bear repeating, and because, he thinks selfishly, maybe his apology could be a substitute for somebody else's. 

Louis shrugs, deliberately gentle, and Harry's hand stays in place. "It's quite alright, really," he says, voice a little too loud and a little too official, out of place in the silence of the living room. "I've got better friends now." He tries to mean it, Harry can see that, but the hurt is plain to see, right underneath his skin. It's an open wound on Harry's heart, how deeply Louis is still hurting, after _years_. He squeezes Louis's shoulder. 

Smiling down at his hands in Loki's fur, Louis makes a sound deep in his throat. "I really do, Haz," he says. Harry tries to resist, but his brain simply takes it to mean _'You're a good friend'_.

"I'm glad," is all he says in response. Louis moves closer to him, as much as that's possible, pressing them together shoulder to knee so tightly Harry has visions of them melding into one person. Loki's smelly dog breath warms both their laps, and Harry feels a little like he's an 80-year-old grandad. He tries not to think about how naturally Louis fits into that scene; like being eighty with him wouldn't be particularly bad. 

"Let's completely emotionally ruin ourselves, shall we?" Louis asks, voice raspy, just as the Titanic gets speared on a giant piece of ice and starts tipping. 

"We shall," Harry replies, grinning, and automatically takes Louis's hand in his, just because. Well. He doesn't really have an excuse. 

Louis, though, doesn't seem to think anything of it. He's still sitting next to Harry curled up with a fleece blanket and a small furry dog, pale in the artificial TV light, and his eyes are bright and alive. As expected, he sniffs his way through the ending, but even with tears running down his face, he's the most radiantly beautiful person Harry has ever seen.

*

New Year's Eve is the epitome of clichés. It's also one hell of a party.

It starts off with Niall and Liam, of all people, tripping over each other into the house with six cases filled with a variety of alcohol. Louis runs in right behind them, jumping around like a kid high on sugar, and beelines for Harry.

"Harold," he says, pressing to Harry's chest so all of him can fit into his immediate personal space, "Harold. We are going to get _wasted_ tonight." 

"I thought we couldn't?"

"Never said that," Liam pipes up. "It just takes a lot more alcohol." 

"True that," Louis shouts and Harry's ears ring. "Tonight is the night. The brightest moment of the werewolf year. The night we show everybody that we're too young to know what to do with our lives. The night that will go down in history, even if nobody will remember. The night—"

"In which we get wasted, yes," Harry interrupts, trying for stern, but all he ends up doing is smiling dopily down at Louis. He's sickening. "Isn't that kind of dangerous, though?" 

"Nah," Niall walks back inside, dragging Zayn behind him by the ear. "We did, like, scientific experiments and shit. You'll finally be _fun_ for once." Half-heartedly, Liam throws a shoe at him and misses. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Louis says, apparently having taken up permanent residence in the space of no further than five inches away from Harry. "I'm a riot." 

Zayn brushes stray leaves out of his hair, and when he's still enough to, he sends them all a dark glare, all bark and no bite. "I'm going to start already, yeah."  

Harry looks worriedly outside at the bright blue sky. "Isn't it technically still morning?"

Louis's eyes immediately light up as senses his chance. "It's—"

"Five pm somewhere, yes, _Christ_ ," Zayn grumbles and doesn't grace Harry with a response at all. They all watch in fascination as he comes over to the crates now residing on the kitchen table, runs his fingers over the clinking bottles and finally pulls out vodka. He opens the cap and takes a resolute swig, and Harry can't stop a sympathetic flinch; there's a reason his drinks of choice mostly consist of sugar.

"Aw, what the hell," Niall shrugs, pulls his beer and a carton of juice out of the fridge, and starts distributing liquids of various colours into plastic cups. Later on, Harry will have trouble remembering much after that. 

Once they all have a bit of a buzz going, they set out for the living room, determined to move the furniture aside, as per Louis's request, because _holy shit we should have a dance floor Leeyum will you dance with me_. Niall is grumpy and grumbling, because they'd taken away his alcohol for the time being, but he joins in. 

The armchairs are easy enough, thanks to their superhuman strength and such, and the table only falls and hits Harry on the head once, but the sofa proves to be a major wrench in their plans. 

"When's the last time you moved this?" Harry huffs right into Louis's face, staring into his blue eyes, blurred just a bit with alcohol. He's holding on to an armrest and trying to make the sofa move at least an inch.

"Dunno," Louis happily shouts back at him, spit landing on some unfortunate places on Harry's face.

"Lift," Zayn says darkly from where he's battling with the backrest. He is, apparently, a moody drunk, and there's no trace of the him of twenty minutes ago, when he was sitting on the kitchen table and singing Katy Perry. 

In the end, they manage somehow, and promptly fall all over each other on the floor, exhausted. Louis reaches out to his phone, plugged into a pair of speakers, and half-heartedly puts on a dance track, something fast and full of a heavy beat that Harry doesn't know. His world narrows down to the darkness spilling in from the window, the tinny music ringing right in his ear, and Louis, who's lying half on top of him, arm draped across Harry's back. The smell of him, mixed with alcohol and spice, is making Hary's head spin in the most pleasant of ways. 

Niall is the first one to get up, turning off the light and dancing something that, six beers ago, could have been the Jig. Zayn and Liam watch him in interest, but make no move to get up, and Louis is the one who takes it onto himself to, quote, get the party going. 

"Dance with me, Haz," he crows lowly right into Harry's ear, his hot breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. And, because Harry's rational thinking has bowed out somewhere around his seventh shot, he agrees quite enthusiastically. 

It's really a downhill slope from there. 

They clamber up surprisingly easily, for two werewolves who have probably drunk enough alcohol to put a regular human in the hospital. Harry tries to not think about how that may have something to do with Louis holding on to his hand the entire time. 

The room is almost completely dark, now, air heavy and sweaty and thick like in a proper club, but Niall dancing in circles around the room, all by himself, reminds Harry of where he is. There's no threat of too many strangers or too many flashing lights or cigarette smoke too thick to breathe. Harry throws himself into it, because everyone in the room has seen him in much worse situations, really. The track changes to a new one, just as bass-heavy, and Louis finally catches up to Harry's flailing limbs. 

" _With_ me," he whisper-shouts into Harry's ear, the only warning Harry gets before there's gentle hands on his hips, spinning him around and grounding him. It's an intimate touch, a hot one, burning on Harry's skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

Feeling slightly unhinged, Harry laughs and moves a little closer. There's barely any space between them now, and the room around them could very well be anything; Harry feels like he's floating. Their breaths mingle, heavy with alcohol on each other's faces. 

Louis is a very good dancer, Harry notes. He's all gyrating hips and subtle moves and closing his eyes to get lost in the music. Harry's mouth feels parched just from the sight of him like this. He feels drawn closer still, and follows the pull until his own hands land on Louis's hips, settling into the dip there like they belong, and the heat of Louis’s body is pressed right against Harry’s own. It's captivating, feeling the muscles shift under his palms, watching Louis smirk at him, like he's finally getting something he's always wanted. 

Without hesitation, Louis brings up his arms to land on Harry's shoulders. His sweaty skin sticks right to Harry's neck as their chests collide, a phantom second heart beating erratically against Harry's ribcage, and they dip and sway to the music in perfect sync; for what may very well be the first time in his life, Harry feels in control of all of himself, like his clumsy feet and coltish limbs were never there. Louis's scent surrounds him completely, swallows him up in their little bubble to make him forget anything else ever existed. Anything feels possible, like this. 

The next song is slower, heavier, dirtier, or maybe that's just in Harry's mind. Louis grins at him devilishly, white teeth flashing. He presses closer still, thighs hitting Harry's, and his eyes are electric blue. 

"You don't mind, do you?" he asks quietly, leaning his forehead against Harry's. They slot together bit by bit as they move, Louis's leg in-between Harry's, about an inch from causing serious trouble, and Harry's brain just. Short-circuits. Fries. He doesn't even know what Louis means, but he answers "No" automatically. He has to fight adding that coming from Louis, he'd take anything, _anything_ at all. 

"Good," another grin, another flash of white and blue like a broken disco light. Then, Harry feels, like electricity down his spine, Louis's leg push forward. It's teasing, fleeting enough that it could be passed off as an accident, but, muddled and lust-hazy as Harry's brain is, he can easily identify the smug, self-satisfied look on Louis's face. He's doing it on purpose, and that. It does things to Harry, bad, _bad_ things. 

He doesn't really think about it, doesn't leave any room for regret. He's drunk, on alcohol and on Louis, and that's the only excuse he needs to give to himself. He spins Louis around, firm hands on his hips as he goes pliantly, does exactly what Harry wants of him, and fuck if that isn't the hottest thing Harry has ever seen. He pulls Louis in, back to chest, holding on, desperate fingers slipping on slick skin. Louis chuckles low in his throat, a gravelly sound like nothing Harry's ever heard from him before, and raises his arms. His hands land on Harry’s nape, pulling him firmly to Louis's level, down to his neck. The sides of their faces are pressed together, and Harry can't help the hopeless, quiet moan that leaves his lips; he knows Louis can hear, and he doesn't care. All he wants to do is sink his teeth into the pale skin, to suck a mark into Louis’s collarbone and possess something that can't ever be his. 

Harry isn't even sure the music is playing anymore. His ears are overrun with the wild thump-thump-thump of his own rushing blood, and the sound of Louis's racing heart. He expects it when Louis presses his arse right into Harry's crotch, there is no element of surprise, but he still has to work very hard to pull in a breath. Pure, terrifying, intense _want_ zings down Harry's spine, electrifies him to the tips of his fingers where they're gripping Louis's hips hard enough to bruise. Even through layers of fabric, the friction, the pressure, the slight drag has Harry's cock filling up rapidly, pressing uncomfortably against the seam of his jeans, and he can't hold back the shallow thrusts of his hips that could hardly be disguised as dancing. 

He hears Louis's heartbeat flare, pick up more speed, and when he presses his face closer to Louis's neck, the scent takes over every single one of his senses, has him wanting to turn off his thinking and let his animal side take over. It's _lust_ , coating Louis's neck and oozing out of his pores, and it makes Harry light-headed - Louis wants him, in this moment when they're pressed together without a breath of air between them, when they're both drunk and greedy and desperate. He is _sinful_ as he writhes in front of Harry, his hair a sweaty mess and his body nothing but perfect curves. Harry only barely meets his eyes, and sees his own glow golden in the glossy reflection of Louis's wide pupils. 

He wants to get Louis out of his clothes. He wants to see every inch of his skin, watch it flush dark red as Harry _wrecks_ him, makes it so good for him he won't ever forget. He wants Louis naked, spread out, desperate, and he wants to be naked and spread out and desperate for Louis. The need is actually overwhelming, the way it consumes him completely, and if he wasn't holding on to Louis for dear life, he would probably be shaking. He can't resist it, and doesn't want to, and when he presses his mouth wetly to Louis's neck, it feels as easy as breathing. 

The skin underneath his lips is salty and slick and the best thing he's ever tasted. Louis doesn't stop him, instead tilts his head away to give Harry more space. Harry moves his lips a little, wondrous, experimental, and Louis's breath catches on a moan, sounding so beautifully eager. Harry presses his face closer, wanting nothing more than to melt into Louis, crawl inside his skin and stay there, burning with a bright flame the way he is now. 

His arms move forward, almost out of their own volition, and he wraps one all the way across Louis's hips. It makes Harry moan, too, how easy it is to measure Louis's body in units of himself, how beautifully he fits inside Harry's every crevice, and how much Harry wishes he could keep him there forever. They're not even dancing anymore, just swaying and gyrating and pressing against each other, pushing each other's buttons. Harry is holding Louis against him, hips planted hot and solid against Harry, and Louis is letting out a cadence of little _ah ah ah_ s that are so quiet they're barely puffs of breath. Harry's other hand settles on Louis's chest, a light weight against the beat of his heart. Harry is lost, completely gone, floating somewhere above the atmosphere high on life. He's never felt anything close to this, this all-consuming desire, and it's so addictive he never wants it to go away. 

"Harry," Louis says, sounding out of breath, just the way Harry wants to make him sound forever. Harry listens, but there's nothing more, their heartbeats and heavy breathing the only sound getting through to his ears. He does hear music in the background, somewhere, but right now, he couldn't tell what direction it is even if he tried. 

"Yeah," he replies, just because; Louis hadn't asked him anything, but Harry feels like acknowledging this, this _thing_ that's grown between them and is staring them right in the face, and hoping that Louis is having the same revelation, that the way he's scratching the back of Harry's neck a little desperately speaks of how he doesn't want to let Harry go. 

Harry is so painfully hard in his jeans, and there's no way Louis doesn't feel him; he'd open his eyes to check, to see if by any chance he's got Louis as riled up as Louis has got him, but his lashes are too heavy, the darkness too enticing with the images that it plays behind his eyelids. He's getting carried away, out of control, and he reaches down a little, thinking that maybe he could, maybe nobody would notice—

The lights turn on. Louis actually flinches, startles with his full body as his heartbeat kicks up, and there's immediate space between them, Harry's hands falling uselessly at his sides. The air around him smells like the house and alcohol again, burning fresh in Harry's nostrils, and it's only when he opens his eyes that he's actually reminded of where he is. 

The living room is empty, whoever turned on the light having gone, the two of them the only people there. Louis's back is to Harry, his body shaking so hard it's obvious even from a distance, and the fog in Harry's mind starts lifting slowly. 

He takes in the empty space around him, the cold that suddenly seems intent on settling right underneath his skin, filling his veins with ice. His shirt is sticking to his back with sweat, reminding him of what exactly has been happening in the room. He feels his heart drop out the bottom of his stomach and splatter at his feet. 

Without thinking, he turns on his heel and _runs_ out onto the back porch, leaving Louis just standing there like a rejected prom date. The night air is absolutely frigid, biting viciously at Harry's skin, and a distant boom of fireworks can be heard in the distance. It must not be long now. 

Standing above the too-quiet garden, Harry is alone with his thoughts, and that's always a dangerous thing. His heartbeat is still trying to stutter slowly back to normal, the heat of the living room evaporating slowly, just like the intensity of the moment back there. Harry can still feel Louis's hands everywhere they've been, a permanent mark that may never fade, the imprint of Louis's body on his.

There's nothing wrong with some shameless dancing, really, is there? Harry has been to plenty of clubs and pubs in his lifetime, danced with plenty of strangers and snogged people he couldn't even see in the dark right there on the dance floor. This, though, it was. It was like nothing Harry had ever felt before; his hands are still shaking a little from the overload. That's why he's run, probably, why he's out here on New Year's Eve trying to numb his feelings in the dark like a coward; he's confused and angry at himself and feels like lashing out at the ghost of what could have been. 

Absently, Harry wonders what Louis is feeling. If he wishes they were never woken up from their trance as much as Harry does, or if he's regretting it already. Louis's raspy, flirty voice and blown pupils and sinful curves are hard to get out of his mind when the sweat is still drying on Harry's skin, sticky and uncomfortable and smelling of lust, raw and somewhat animalistic. 

All the way out on the road, Harry hears a car brake with a sharp sound, and detachedly thinks about trying to care if something's happened. He's suddenly exhausted, dragged down by too many thoughts, and thinks about going back, turning all the lights off again and losing himself like he just had. He'd felt free, liberated, felt like he could do anything with Louis's breath in his hair and his hands on Harry's neck. 

"Hazza," a voice suddenly says, calm and collected and only shaking a little, the same voice Harry had moaning in his ear not twenty minutes ago. 

"Hey," he turns slowly to watch Louis step outside. He's put a jumper on, his birthday one, the one Harry had so painstakingly picked out – it's incredible on him, just like Harry had been sure it would be. He looks soft and vulnerable, hair a little mussed up and curling on the ends, damp with sweat, miles removed from the Louis Harry had abandoned in the living room. Harry itches to touch him, hold him, give him everything he could ever want. 

"Ten minutes to go," Louis says, trying to hold on to his smile. It looks fragile, like anything Harry says could shatter it forever. 

"Ready for another new year?" Harry smiles back, tries to extend a piece of himself to reach Louis, comfort him the best he can; to run a hand through his hair and tell him he's the world. 

"Not remotely," Louis says drily and closes the door behind him. The momentary quiet envelopes them, soothes their reddened skin and frazzled nerves and everything that feels broken between them. Soon, the sky will light up with fireworks and smoke, and the explosions will ring in Harry's ears long after.

"Yeah. Me either." 

The wood underneath them creaks as Louis tiptoes towards Harry and leans on the banister right next to him. He's barefoot.

"Might be better than this year." 

Harry shrugs. "Might not. This year was pretty fantastic." He tries to make the words sound the way he wants them, to convey everything that weighs heavy, untold, on his heart. _I found a place to be myself, I found friends, I found peace. I met you._

_I came home._

__Louis snorts and says nothing. He tilts his head back, exposing his pale neck like a column of light in the night, and closes his eyes. For a moment, Harry wishes that snow was falling, just so he could watch soft snowflakes settle on Louis's eyelashes.

"Hey, Harry?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I'm sorry," Louis says, opens his eyes to look intently into Harry's. It's the natural, human blue that's staring Harry in the face, and right now, he can't help being grateful for it. 

"Nothing to be sorry for," Harry says automatically, because there isn't. 

Louis snorts again, loud and derisive. He pulls the sleeves of his jumper down to cover his fingers, breathing into his palms and rubbing them against each other. Harry has half a mind to resist the impulse to take Louis's hands in his and warm him up, but he really, really doesn't want to. Last minutes of the year, and all that. If Harry screws things up, they can just turn around and toast to new beginnings. 

He takes Louis's hands.

Louis stills, whatever he was about to say getting lost on its way out of his mouth. He stares down, almost hypnotised, and Harry dares to move his fingers, rubbing small circles into the flesh of Louis's palms, chasing away the redness and the cold. He tries to pour all of himself into the touch, overcome by Louis being open to him like this, wanting to take back every single shitty thing he's done and go back to what they do best - being _them_. 

Louis clears his throat and finds his voice. He doesn't pull away. "I mean—back there. I basically climbed you." 

"I told you I didn't mind."  

The thrum of Louis's blood gets a little louder. His cheeks are red in the December chill, but not from the cold. "Yeah. I was just—I thought—you just left, you know."

Harry stops the movement of his fingers, instead holding on to Louis's wrists with a gentle, slack grip. "I know. I'm sorry." 

It's been ten minutes since he stormed out, probably. Now, it feels like a different century. It's rolling over him like tidal waves, how much he loves this beautiful, wonderful boy, it's filling him up to the brim and making him want to burst, fly high like a firework and write it all over the sky for everyone to see. It's a storm inside him, a hurricane, but it's a thousand times better than standing in the desert. 

Harry doesn't shy away from things like drunken tattoos and skydiving; free falling head over heels is just another new experience, something more exhilarating than he's ever tried before. He doesn't want to shy away from it, he _won't_. Louis probably doesn't feel the same, and that's okay; Harry is going to live it and accept it, a part of himself as integral as his occasional recklessness, because loving Louis, soft, vulnerable, amazing Louis, should be easy as breathing. 

"It's okay," Louis says, a little breathless. Then, hesitantly, like he's not sure he wants to ask: "Why did you run off like that?" 

"I'm, uh…" Harry wants to run his fingers through his hair to distract himself, but Louis's hands are warm. "I'm kind of a wanker?" 

Unexpectedly, Louis laughs. The sound catches a little in his throat, sounds more like a bark, crinkles exploding, sharp little teeth slicing the darkness. He carefully tugs one of his hands out of Harry's grip, moves a little closer to bring his fingers to Harry's cheek. They're hot when they meet Harry's skin, burning like a brand. 

"No you're not. You're quite alright, Harry Styles." He says it gently, with a hint of a laugh in his voice, and Harry has no choice but to believe him. There's something in his eyes, like he's thrown away all pretence; the walls that still stand solid inside him he's hidden away. 

"You too," Harry says dumbly, and is rewarded with another smile. 

They're so close their noses are almost touching, and the strange thing is that Harry barely notices. He's lost in everything that is Louis, the heat emanating off his body, the way he has to tip his chin down just a little bit to catch Louis's eyes. It feels perfectly natural, standing in front of Louis, hugging him almost, like this is where Harry's been meant to be since the beginning.

 Far-off in the distance, a resounding boom rattles in the air. A single firework shoots into the sky, and Harry watches it burst into a thousand sparks in Louis's eyes.

"You know," Louis blinks, slow and lovely, "you're supposed to have someone to kiss at midnight tonight. For good luck, and all that." 

Harry hums. Somewhere behind them, another firework whistles and bursts, coating the sky in golden stars. "So who are you kissing?" 

Louis shrugs. "I snogged Liam last year, but I don't think he'd want to repeat that." 

"Are you that bad a kisser?" Harry teases. 

Louis looks indignant for a second, mouth dropping open in fake shock. "I am excellent, thank you very much." 

_Prove it_ , is on the tip of Harry's tongue. Louis's lips glisten and shimmer as the sky flares with more and more lights, and Harry wants to bite them until they're cherry red. He opens his mouth to say _something_ , but he's interrupted by Niall's voice somewhere above them, probably leaning out of a window. 

_"Ten!"_

__"Well, then. Here goes," Louis says drily. Harry physically cannot look away from his face; he looks like he's made out of marble, painted with a rainbow of colourful reflections from the sky.

_"Nine!"_

__"He's really drunk, isn't he?" Harry asks, matter-of-fact as he closes the last inches between them, brushing the fabric of their jumpers together. He tells himself he’s huddling closer because he's cold.

_"Eight!"_

__Louis's only response is an inelegant snort. There's a twinkle in his eye, mischief, like he's got a secret stash of explosives hidden just under the porch that he's going to set off at midnight.

_"Seven!"_

__"Any resolutions?" Harry asks. He thinks about his, but it's hard to think further than the next six seconds. His heart is beating out of time.

_"Six!"_

__Louis shrugs. "Same as every year. Be a better person, stop smoking, yadda yadda."

"You don't smoke," Harry points out. 

_"Five!"_

__"And you don't need to become a better person. You're already the best.”

Louis stares at him, grinning, head cocked to the side like a curious dog. "You're ridiculous," he concludes. 

_"Four!"_

__If Harry strains his ears, he can hear thousands of people, far beyond the forest around them, repeating the same words. It sounds like a prayer, the kind that has the power to heal masses and move mountains.

_"Three!"_

__"So, no Liam?" he asks, just to be cheeky.

Louis shakes his head, a little like he can't believe that Harry is a real person; Harry takes pride in that. 

"No Liam." 

_"Two!"_

__They're probably going to wish each other a happy new year, maybe hug, and walk inside to celebrate with the boys. Harry's mind is probably working overtime. It's _probably_ wishful thinking.   Louis's other hand slips out from between Harry's fingers easily, and the skin of his palm is warm and dry where it slides softly to Harry's neck. 

_"One!"_

__Louis stands up on his tiptoes. His breath smells like mint and alcohol, a little bitter and still perfect where it fans out over Harry's face. He smiles, just before his eyes close, light as a feather.

"Ridiculous," he rasps, whispers, and with the last syllable still fading in his throat, he leans in and kisses Harry. 

_"Happy New Year!"_

__The sky above them explodes.

Harry is floating. There is no other way to describe what he's feeling, no discernible earthly emotion that would do it justice. Louis surrounds him, once again, and Harry is drinking him in, so greedy he's almost drowning. Twin heartbeats thud in his ears, almost in sync, both racing like they've been running to meet right in this moment. 

Harry lets out a forgotten breath that got caught in his lungs, just as Louis leaned forward and Harry had a split second to think _this is actually happening_ , and takes in more air.

Louis's lips are impossibly soft on his, slick and smooth, and they slot in between Harry's _just right_. It's a chaste kiss, nothing but a press of their mouths together, but it ignites a fire in Harry's belly, a strong, powerful _want_. 

Harry brings his hands up to circle Louis's waist, pulling him as close as he possibly can, and even then, it's not close enough. He can feel Louis's skin burning through layers of clothes, just out of touch. 

Louis wraps his arms around Harry's neck, giggling into the kiss when he accidentally presses their noses together. Harry can't help the answering smile that takes over his face, stretching his lips, and in a split second they're both laughing into each other's shoulders. 

Harry hugs Louis close to him, slotting in perfectly like a puzzle piece. Louis is soft and warm and pliant, fingers interlaced on the back of Harry's neck, tracing lazy circles. Harry presses his smile to the skin just behind Louis's ear, again and again as he tries to reconcile the feeling of absolute happiness that's rushing through his veins, tries to calm his shuddery breathing and still his shaking hands. They're swaying a little, side to side like a lazy slowdance, comfortably stuck in the moment of having each other. They could stay just like this, forever, and Harry wouldn't mind one bit. 

"Happy fucking New Year!" Niall screams as he slams the back door open. Louis flinches a little and goes to pull away, like their bubble has been burst, but Harry doesn't let him. He smooths an open palm up Louis's spine, then back all the way down to his hips, calming, tethering him. Nothing has been stolen from the moment, it's still right here, between them, burning bright like a newborn star. 

"Happy New Year, Ni," Harry says quietly, smiling as he lets his chin rest on Louis's shoulder. When Niall spots them, he starts, eyes going impossibly wide, and then he fistbumps thin air. He sends Harry a thumbs-up and, without a word, runs down into the garden. 

"Happy New Year, Harry," Louis mumbles, voice small, choked up. Gently, Harry runs his fingers down his face and tilts Louis's chin up; their eyes meet, again, and Harry wants to shout it all into the world. 

"To you too, Lou," he says, wipes away a drop of moisture gathered underneath Louis's eye, and pecks his lips again. He has a hard time pulling away, already starting to plan ways to get them attached to each other permanently. They smile at each other, matching wide grins, and they must look like complete idiots. 

Not long after Niall, Zayn and Liam follow outside, wrapped in blankets and swaying to the faint beat of music from the inside. They all turn their faces to the sky, watch fireworks rise and explode and fall like a rain of fire, washing the world around them in patches of colour like stained glass. 

Niall goes back inside, then, and re-emerges with an armful of rockets. Liam's eyebrows do the caterpillar immediately, and he looks like he's about to set off on another one of his concerned tangents.

"I didn't even know we had those," Zayn says, testy, looking at the items in Niall's arms like he doesn't quite trust them.

"That's because I bought them yesterday," Niall grins. He runs down the stairs, right to the middle of the garden, where a solitary patch of grass has been spared Zayn and Liam's combined gardening efforts. He sticks the smallest ones into the ground first, and magics up a lighter that Harry remembers seeing inside Zayn's pack of cigarettes.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Liam shouts over the boom and crackle in the air. 

"No worries, Li." 

That doesn't seem to calm Liam down one bit, but he doesn't do anything – they all watch the wick flare and come to life, showering the garden in bright sparks. Niall sprints back to the porch and stays there, hanging on to Zayn's sleeve and jumping up and down. 

Once the wick burns out, the flame disappears, and nothing happens. 

“ _No_ ,” Niall’s face falls immediately, and Harry has to bury his laugh in Louis's shoulder. A second later, the rocket shoots upwards with a whistle. 

Still leaning on Harry's front, Louis smiles bright and wide, all teeth, and fists a small hand in Harry's jumper. His eyes sparkle golden with the reflections from the sky. Harry gets it, he thinks, the overwhelming feeling of happiness that Louis seems to be filled to the brim with; there is something special about watching fireworks like this, breathing fog into the night, peaceful and holding the boy he loves in his arms. Standing here, even though he misses mum and Gemma and Holmes Chapel, Harry thinks he has everything. 

"Another one!" Niall crows, and this time, they all cheer him on. Another rocket shoots up, vivid greens and blues; it hisses and fizzles and leaves a slowly fading trail of light imprinted on the back of Harry's eyelids.

Louis is still giggling, watching the sky happily, looking like a little boy at a fair. Harry wants him to see better, wants to look as joy explodes in his eyes over and over again – he spins Louis around gently, pressing his own chest against Louis's back, arms circling his waist and chin coming down to rest on his shoulder. Louis goes without protest, pliant and soft against Harry's body, and snuggles into the embrace until there's no room between them for the cold. 

Finally, Niall carries his biggest rocket out into the garden. He looks like a man on a mission, serious and determined, but as soon as the wick catches and starts burning, he's grinning like a boy. They all subconsciously lean closer with baited breath, watching the flame disappear. They listen to the explosion, revel in the way it rattles them down to their bones and still leaves them standing.

Niall is looking up into the sky, and he's bright like the sun. All of them are.

"Happy New Year, lads. Let's have a good one."

And Harry can't help thinking, as he watches the small ball of light fly higher and squeezes Louis's hands in excitement, that they definitely, definitely will.

*

January starts like shit.

Harry wakes up in the early afternoon with what has to certifiably be the worst hangover of his life. With the amount of alcohol it takes to get a werewolf drunk, he should probably be grateful that violent nausea and a pounding headache are the only symptoms he's experiencing. His mouth and throat are dry and fuzzy, and he briefly wonders if they got up to any wolf-y antics after midnight. 

When he dares to open his eyes, he's in his usual guest bedroom, lying fully clothed on top of the covers, and Louis is still peacefully sleeping next to him. He's—oh.

_Louis._

The fog on Harry's mind lifts rapidly, the way it does when sunshine warms a rainy day; there's a phantom touch of a pair of lips on his own, just a memory, but enough to have Harry's insides swirling in a storm. Holy crap. Wow.

Shaky, Harry gets up and leaves Louis to sleep. He's thinking about yesterday night as he climbs in the shower, uselessly trying to loosen up his muscles under the hot water. The droplets trickling down his body set his senses on fire, remind him of dancing and sweat trailing down his back, and he feels his cock twitch at the memory. 

He really, really shouldn't do this right now; not in a bathroom inside a house that's not his home, not when the building is full of werewolves with superhuman hearing and smell, and certainly not when the object of his perverse fantasies is sleeping _right next door_.

Unfortunately, Harry's body is absolutely not on board. The mental image of Louis spread out and breathing heavily is enough to have all his blood rushing south; he feels himself getting hard, slightly painful even without the constraints of his pants and jeans; he trails a hand down his chest and abs slowly, tries to think of disgusting things in vain hopes of making his almost-hard on go away. 

When he finally, finally gets his hand on himself, Louis's small fingers at the forefront of his mind, his hips buck forward automatically. He leans back against the shower wall, focused on breathing slowly in and out, and closes his eyes. 

Immediately, he's assaulted with a memory, or maybe just a feeling; pounding bass that fades gradually as Louis fills up every single one of his senses. He had felt so pliant, so willing underneath Harry's hands, like he could have melted into him any moment. Harry starts stroking slowly, and lets himself imagine; how filthy and wonderful Louis's tongue would have felt in his mouth, the way his bare chest would shine with sweat underneath his shirt, and how his skin would stick to Harry's when they lay tangled together in one of the rooms upstairs. 

The memory of their actual kiss, strangely, only makes Harry feel like a balloon is inflating in his chest, making him want to fly to the sky and bob up there in the clouds. It's happiness at its purest, an excited anticipation for the things that, hopefully, could happen later. 

Letting go of conscious thought, Harry strokes faster, dragging his thumb over the slit, and lets the heat spread freely throughout his body, tingling all the way in the tips of his fingers. It's just flashes of blue eyes and soft hair and beautifully cut lips that push him closer. He brings his free hand up to bite into, trying to stifle a moan that's trying to tear its way out of his throat, and the dull pain sends a white-hot shot of pleasure down his spine, unlocks something he'd been trying to keep back inside his mind. 

Harry has always thought he'd probably like that, a little scratch and bite, surrendering control to somebody he trusts implicitly, but imagining Louis doing it to him has his knees buckling. He can feel it, almost, the ghost of teeth on his neck and chest and inner thighs, a hot mouth sucking on the head of his cock as blunt nails scratch his hips and raise goosebumps along his arms.

"Fuck," Harry hisses, cursing his mind and himself as he thrusts into his hand desperately, water running down his face and dripping off his eyelashes as it slowly goes colder. Low in his belly, a fire is burning higher and higher, and he has half a mind to run back to the bedroom and ask Louis to shower with him and could they please make horribly noisy, passionate love until the next morning. 

It's the thought of having Louis inside him that does it, really. Harry has tried fingering himself multiple times, but it's always incredibly awkward – he never finds a good angle for his fingers to go deep enough, and his wrist starts hurting quickly. Imagining Louis taking his time to press into him, whispering dirty things in his ear, biting his neck, teasing a finger around Harry's rim until he gives up any semblance of control and _begs_ —it's absurd, how much it turns him on. Louis's probably big, too, just because attractive people usually are, and he'd fill Harry up so fucking good, rock into him full of life and energy, the way he does everything; he'd have Harry's legs all the way up on his shoulders to get deeper, he'd kiss him with too much tongue and make it so good—

Harry comes all over the shower stall tiles. He watches it trickle down despondently, cups some water in his hand to wash off the evidence, but he can't do much else. He's shaking, absolutely trembling from head to toe, and he's quite sure he still has stars dancing in front of his eyes. He's breathing in short little bursts, fogging up the ceramic – it feels like his lungs have dropped out of his ribcage at some point, and his heart is pulsing in every inch of his body. Harry's blood is like a waterfall, filling his ears up with white noise and racing through his veins. 

That just happened, he thinks, and he has no idea what to do about it. He'd never had an orgasm that good, not in his two years of having sex with different people, and it's as sad as it is desperate. He _wants_ so badly; it's still pulsing through him, muscles constricting and aching pleasantly. He wants Louis to take him apart, to show him how it's supposed to feel, he wants everything with him. It almost makes him cry, the fact that now, it's an actual, far-off possibility. 

Maybe Harry's gay, or maybe he needs to be in love before he has sex to make it that good – he doesn't care at all for why Louis is the person who does these things to him, he just cares for making it happen, if he can. 

The water is falling down in icy slates all around him now, and he breaks a few records in soaping up and rubbing shampoo into his hair. He's out within a minute, but even through his skin gone clammy and cold, there's a fire inside burning bright that's warming him up. He wipes himself down with a towel and ruffles his hair, wraps it around his waist, and opens the door thinking of the ways he can wake Louis up and what he can make for breakfast. 

On his way back into the bedroom, he stops. The bed they'd slept on is messy, covers wrinkled, and there's a small dip in the right half of the mattress.

Louis is gone.

*

Regardless of how optimistic Harry had felt on the morning of New Year’s Day, it's all left him by the morning of the 3rd. He's staying at the house until he has to go back to school, and he loves it, he does, but when he comes down the stairs to an empty kitchen, again, he can't help feeling a little sick to his stomach. Four days ago, he'd been blindingly happy watching fireworks and holding his boy; he doesn't understand how it went to shit so quickly.

The thing is, Louis is avoiding him, and he's not doing it half-assedly the way he'd done before they started being civil with each other. No, he's going to the lengths of leaving a room he's in as soon as he hears Harry coming his way, and they haven't spoken a single word to each other since New Year's Eve. 

Tiredly, Harry goes about making breakfast. He's not feeling like banging around with pans and spoons and oil bottles, but he'd promised Niall pancakes, and breaking a promise to Niall is equivalent to sacrilege in this household. 

The world is waking up slowly behind the window, the sun having just come up to illuminate the powdery, translucent coat of snow that must have settled on the ground overnight. It's looking like a beautiful day, and Harry thinks a walk after breakfast might do him some good. 

"Thought I heard you dropping things," Liam says cheerfully just as Harry is pouring his first pancake in. He's really the only one who could possibly be up this early, but Harry is glad for the company. 

The other boys have picked up on the tension between Louis and Harry immediately – they've been trying a little too hard to cheer Harry up and entertain him while Louis hides out in his room or in the forest.

"Morning," says Harry. Liam pats him lightly on the back as he passes on his way to the fridge. 

They don't say anything more as the pile of pancakes by Harry's side slowly grows, and the sun climbs higher in the sky outside. It's comforting to have another person just _be_ in the room with him, breathing the same air and relieving some of Harry's anxiety. 

He's been completely out of his element in the past few days, and no matter what he does, getting back on track proves impossible again and again. He hadn't realised how much he relies on Louis, on his terribly spelled texts and random phone calls and the smiles and the laughter and the teasing, and now that all of it's been taken away, he's left floundering. No matter how many times he calls mum, or plays poker with Niall with Milkybar buttons instead of chips, the feeling of warmth and home is gone. He no longer feels cradled, protected, safe. He feels wrong, all of them do – he can tell. 

"Hey, Harry?" Liam asks from behind him, tentative, when Harry's turning off the stove and stacking dirty dishes in the sink. 

"Yeah." 

"I think you should talk to him," he says, and when Harry turns to look at him, he's staring a hole into the tabletop. Harry is surprised – nobody has said anything to him, perhaps taking note of the bags underneath his eyes and the shaky way he goes about doing everything, not wanting to upset him further. Liam does have a point, though. Harry had been hiding away and feeling sorry for himself, even though he'd promised himself to try, and maybe that's exactly what Louis had been hoping, waiting for. 

"I probably should," he concedes, sitting down opposite Liam with just a glass of water, desperately not feeling like breakfast. 

Liam nods slowly, thoughtfully. "I mean, I don't know what happened—" 

"Nothing," Harry is quick to say. "I mean, we went to sleep on New Year's Eve, I woke up, and he was gone." He omits the things he'd been doing before he'd found the bed empty, and it's probably for the better.

"He's—I mean, he's Louis. He's complicated, but he's not malicious."

"I know."

"He doesn't do things like this on purpose," Liam continues, putting strange emphasis on every word that comes out of his mouth. "He probably thinks you hate him, or something." 

"Why?" Harry frowns.

Liam shrugs in response, sipping on orange juice like he hadn't come to the kitchen just to drop bombshells on Harry. "It's just the way his mind works. He's scared, I think, and he's waiting for you to reassure him." 

"But he's been…he just walks away whenever I get near him." 

"Then chase him down," Liam smiles. 

They're silent for a few moments. Harry lets all of it spin in his mind, thoughts distorting into bizarre scenarios and snapping back to reality. 

"What if it's something I've done?" Harry asks finally, quietly. 

"I don't think it is," Liam replies. "We've all told you you're good for him, not even he has an idea just how much. He adores you, Harry, I don't think you could do a thing wrong in his eyes, even if you tried." 

Harry is strangely pleased to hear the words, a small pit of warmth bleeding open inside him. It has nothing on the bonfire of happiness that kissing Louis kindled in Harry's chest, but it's a start. "He doesn't _adore_ me. Come on." 

Liam only raises his eyebrows in response, looking at Harry like he's a hopeless case. Wordlessly, he points upstairs, and blinded with the possibility of getting Louis back, Harry goes without a word. 

The upstairs is still dark and cold, with doors closed and blinds drawn. Louis's room is right at the top of the stairs, the doorway standing dark and unassuming. Harry presses his palm flat against the ornately carved wood, trying to listen in for breathing. It's still early, and Louis is probably sleeping – waking him up is the last thing Harry wants to do. 

Nervously, Harry shuffles his feet and presses his ear closer. He's pathetic, and apparently very bad at being sneaky. Louis must not be asleep, and he must hear him.

"Come in," he says; it might just be the thick wood of the door, or maybe Harry hearing things that aren't there, but his voice sounds croaky and tried, a little too empty. Harry wants to fix it. 

He pushes down on the handle, poking his head into the room before the rest of his body. It's almost completely dark inside, and it smells awful, like nobody's opened a window in days. 

"Hey," Louis says quietly. He's curled up at the head of his bed, covered in several blankets and leaning back on a pillow. He's the smallest Harry has ever seen him, retreated into himself like a wounded animal, arms wrapped tight around his knees, holding himself together. There's no trace of his usual personality, no trace of the way he fills up the entire room just by existing, and the air is cold with the absence of Louis's spark. 

"Hello," Harry says, matching Louis's tone. "May I?" He motions to the room in general, despite having been invited in already. Wordlessly, Louis nods, so small Harry would have missed it if he weren't looking. 

Slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal that he doesn't want to spook, Harry closes the door behind himself. He never stops looking at Louis, trying to meet his eyes as he moves closer and gingerly sits down at the side of Louis's bed. He's not even close enough to touch, but his palms itch with how much he wants to. It feels wrong, seeing Louis like this, and Harry wants desperately to make him feel better any way he can. 

It's probably selfish, wanting to see Louis smile so Harry himself can pretend things are okay, but he's gotten used to his own demons. 

He'd planned an interrogation, honestly, planned to storm in and bang doors and shout and demand explanations, but he can't, he _can't_. Not when Louis has started shaking slightly just looking at him; not when he looks like he hasn't left the room in days.

"Are you okay?" is what comes out, and he's not surprised in the slightest. Louis chuckles, wipes at his face, and it's then that a sliver of weak morning light catches on his cheeks. There are tears still drying by his nose. "You've been crying."

"Yeah, uh," Louis clears his throat, curling up tighter. "Sorry about that." 

"Don't be," Harry's hand shoots out, desperate to tether both himself and Louis, bring them closer and warm them up, but he only touches the cold covers. "God, Louis, no. Just. Could you tell me why?" 

He smiles. "I'm kind of a wanker." 

Harry starts frowning, but then he remembers – it feels like weeks ago, that night. "No you're not." 

"That's nice of you to say."

"Louis—"

"I'm sorry," Louis interrupts, rubbing his face tiredly. "I shouldn't have started avoiding you like that, that was stupid." 

"Yeah," Harry responds, quiet. He doesn't want to let the hurt show, but he does a terrible job of it, as usual. Louis reaches out across the bed, fingertips straining to touch, and Harry holds out his hand. It's warm and familiar when their palms touch, like all those nights spent talking about nothing on the sofa. 

"I'm sorry, fuck. You're upset," says Louis, eyes shining softly in the marble plane of his face. There is something different about him; he looks a little like an apparition. "I should've just—I'm an idiot, God. I'm sorry." 

Harry doesn't quite know what to say. "You're upset, too. What's wrong? Why—why all this?" he motions vaguely at the room around them, at the dark piles of dirty clothes on the floor and the drawn blinds. "I don't understand." 

"Harry, I—I think we need to talk about, uh. What happened."

"You mean us kissing?" Harry asks, mentally cradling the memory of the feeling and the impression it had left, building a wall around it to protect it from whatever Louis is about to say. It's a coil of pure happiness, something that he wants to keep, untainted, forever. 

Louis subconsciously touches his mouth. "Yeah. Us—yeah." 

"What about it?" Louis's hand is still in his, now clammy and sticky with sweat, but neither of them is letting go. 

"It shouldn't have happened." 

And the thing is, Harry wants to take it at face value, but. He'd felt how desperately Louis clung to him that night, felt him tremble and take shaky breaths underneath his own hands, and their kisses, they weren't brought on by drunkenness or out of want for distraction. They were real, and they meant something, and Harry will be damned if he doesn't get an explanation for why they weren't good enough for Louis. He asks the most difficult question he could possibly pose.

"Why?" 

"Haz, look. I like you, I really do, but we can't do things like that. It wouldn't be good for either of us." 

"That's not really an answer, is it," Harry is shrewd, but he keeps squeezing Louis's fingers, trying to anchor himself and not say something he'll regret later. "I like you, too. New Year's Eve made me really happy, and I thought—" a lump swells in his throat. Harry has to blink furiously to try and make it go away. "Well. Nevermind." When he looks up to Louis, he's looking at Harry with one of his gentle expressions, features soft and easy, with a small, concerned wrinkle on his forehead. Even when his eyes start burning a werewolf blue, Harry can clearly see the tears it them. His heart hurts. 

"It's just—we can't ever be anything." 

"Why not?"  

They're just pushing at each other, now; Harry is hurting, and he knows Louis is, too, and he dreads the moment one of them breaks.

Louis shakes his head, finally pulling his hand out of Harry's as he wraps his arms around himself. "You barely know anything about me." 

"I know the things I care about," Harry says. 

"There are—things. Stuff I've done, stuff that's happened to me. I'm…messed up." 

"I know you're not fine, Lou," Harry moves closer, and thinks _fuck it_. "I've been around you for long enough to be able to tell. But you're wonderful the way you are, with everything that you carry around and can't let go of, and I wish we could just…I don't need to know everything, Louis. But if you ever felt—if I ever became someone who could make life easier for you, help you, in any way, get through the day with that _smile_ on your face, I'd be happy doing just that. For as long as you'd have me." 

Louis tries to wipe his face dry on his blanket, but he doesn't quite manage. There's a look of wonder in his eyes, something like awe and overwhelming sadness all at once. He brings a hand up to touch Harry's cheek, the same way he'd done before they kissed, and his thumb swipes gently at the corner of Harry's mouth. "You're so fucking lovely," he says, and there's a ghost of a grin in the corner of his lips. "But we still couldn't. Can't." 

Harry nods silently. "Will you tell me why you just started avoiding me?" 

"I'm sorry," Louis says again, reflexively, and his hand drops. "It's—I wanted to scare you away, I think. Without having this talk." 

"Is there more to talk about?" Harry asks gently, with baited breath. 

"I mean. Even if we never spoke again after today, or whatever, I still wouldn't think it's fair, I… you need to know what I've done. You need to know everything, and then it's up to you to decide if you ever want to see me again. I couldn't just pretend everything is okay and go on kissing you and marvelling at how fucking happy you make me and not have you know. That's not fair, and I'd break both our hearts, so."

Harry's heart is well on its way to breaking already. There is a war raging underneath Louis's skin, plain to see; Harry wants to find a solution, lead the peace negotiations, calm and soothe and heal wounds the best he can. "Are you sure?" he asks, and if they're both crying by now, they’re the only ones who’ll know.

Louis looks at him imploringly, like he's confessing his innermost secret, like he needs Harry to believe whatever he says; Harry will. 

"I trust you."

Harry nods, and tries to breathe through the painful clench of his heart. "Okay." 

"But I'm not sure I can—maybe you should, uh, look it up yourself." 

"Look it up?" 

"My eyes," Louis says, and closes them in shame like he's only just remembered he was looking. When his gaze meets Harry's again, they're back to being the pale colour of the sky. "They haven't always been blue. It's not a natural colour for a werewolf."

"Oh," is all Harry says. He's wondered before, just briefly, but he's never given it much thought. 

"Yeah. A regular werewolf's will be gold, like yours," and he smiles a little, grin spreading when Harry lets his eyes flash on purpose. "And an alpha's would be red. Mine are just—well. Nobody wants these."

"They're beautiful," Harry says, honest.

Louis laughs bitterly, clenching his fists like he's in pain. "Don't. Please." 

"Sorry." 

"Go, yeah?" Louis stretches a hand, rubs a tentative finger across Harry's knuckles. "You'll find it in the library, in any of the genetics books. You should hear this from me, but I—I can't." 

"Okay," Harry says; he just wants to do right, to fix this, fix _them_ , even if it's impossible to do. He takes both of Louis's hands, interlaces their fingers and squeezes, revels in the way Louis squeezes back, weak. Their hearts are beating in the same jackrabbit rhythm, scared; Harry feels like he's standing on the edge of a cliff, and there's nothing more than a single step separating him from free falling. "Okay. Can I come back after?" 

"You won't want to," Louis sounds so terrifyingly certain. Harry is tired, and he hurts, and he hopes that when he comes back, Louis will let him climb into bed and cuddle and breathe him in for at least a few centuries. "But, please. If you'll want to. I don't—if I never see you again—"

"No, Lou. No," Harry doesn't let him finish. He stands up, still holding on to Louis, and leans in to kiss him. Their lips meet in a mess of salty tears; it feels too much like goodbye. Louis's unspoken _I won't blame you_ hangs heavy in the air between them.

Harry turns around, then, and leaves before he can talk himself out of it. 

Twenty minutes later, he's running. He barely knows where he is and keeps stumbling on naked tree roots and hidden rocks, but he doesn't care. The only thing in his mind's eye is Louis, sitting alone in his room, paralysed with the knowledge that, just as he'd predicted, Harry isn't coming back. He sees the blue eyes burn with a vicious flame, turn on him in betrayal, and, with a hollow echo underneath the trees, hears himself scream.

*

      _Eye colour in werewolves most traditionally signifies their stance in a hierarchy, such as a werewolf pack. Omega and Beta werewolves typically have an eye colour in shades of gold, similar to that of actual wolves, while an Alpha's eyes glow red. In special cases, genetic mutations can happen._  
      _An example of this are blue-eyed werewolves that, according to medieval documents listed at the end of the chapter, have first started appearing in the fourteenth century after a conscious resistant force against werewolves had been formed in the form of werewolf hunters. This forced the native werewolf population to retreat into forests and caves, form tight-knit packs that hid in lairs, and become vicious and untrusting towards strangers. Several documented cases talk of unsuspecting hikers being pulled off the path and ripped apart because they have breached the invisible borders of werewolf territory and disturbed a pack that, by then, had become almost synonymous with wild animals after being shunned by the humans around them._  
      _Those who were out on a hunt for werewolves started noticing a change in eye colour, particularly in packs that lived in areas close to human residences, and feared a new strain of werewolves. After extensive anti-werewolf action and intense pursue, a sample of thirty werewolves had been collected and held captive by the year 1547 near Glasgow, Scotland, and subjected to experiments and torture to reveal the secret to the change._  
      _The results of this cruel research led us to the conclusion that is now a commonly known, wide-spread fact: a wolf whose eyes have changed colour from gold to blue is a wolf that has, at any point in their previous lifetime, killed an innocent._

*

Nothing even starts sinking in until about four in the afternoon, when Harry is lying face-down on his bed and trying to breathe in and out instead of drowning on dry land.

There's—nothing. He's not thinking anything, his mind an endless black hole that's sucking in everything he'd thought he'd known and leaving a wasteland behind. Not a single thing is making sense. He'd gone to the library, found a book that sounded like it wouldn't make his head spin with archaic language, and sat down to find the section he'd needed. He doesn't know what he'd been expecting, can't believe how fucking naïve he was, thinking it can't be anything that bad. 

There has to be an explanation, Harry knows. There's no way that – fuck, he can barely think his name without choking on thin air – _Louis_ is a murderer. He can't be. Louis is light, everything positive in Harry's life, he's happiness and makes Harry feel like floating. Except maybe he's not. 

Harry doesn't know anything right now, is the thing. His mum had always told him he trusts people too easily, and he can't help the niggling doubt that has settled firm and heavy on his heart. Maybe all of this had been a con. Maybe Zayn's friendship and Liam's concern and Niall's terrible jokes were all an act, maybe Louis was just looking for a gullible fool, somebody to enchant then leave in the dust, or maybe tear out their throat while they're sleeping. It hurts to even think that way, but it's all there is. The happy memories, everything positive he's experienced in the past months is overwhelmed by the fake images his mind keeps spinning.

By nine in the evening, the air in the room has become too thick to breathe, somehow, and Harry feels like he's drowning in his own thoughts. Salvation comes in the form of Ed, who is back in London to play some gigs, inviting Harry for pints. Harry remembers what's happened the last time he went to a pub, and it's the precise reason he says yes. He _wants_ the cruelly pounding music and the sensory overload and the smell of too many emotions all at once. He wants to soak in the pain, let it fill him up until there's no room for anything else. 

When he gets back to bed at four in the morning, all he has are ringing ears and a broken heart.

*

Time mostly goes on the way it normally does, too fast and full of regret. On every new day that dawns grey and cold, Harry wishes he could say he's okay and mean it.

At first, his phone keeps ringing for hours. Liam or Zayn or Niall are always keeping him up with phone calls and texts, everything ranging from _harry where r u please come back_ to a simple _ur a ragin dick_. He doesn't take the insults to heart (knows, deep down, that they're right), though he does wish he could just pick up, tell them he's fine, start a conversation. He doesn't know what he'd say. 

He misses them so much he can't breathe with it sometimes. There is nothing like being surrounded by the scent of his best friends, his _pack_. He knows they've taken Louis's side, and rightly so, because Harry is still the newcomer, the one who stumbled in and stayed and foolishly thought he knew what he was getting into. 

Most of all, he misses Louis. It's a gaping hole inside his chest, right where his heart used to be and beat out of time whenever Louis would smile. Harry can't help wondering what he's doing; if he's angry or sad or just accepting, because Harry came and left, didn't exceed any expectations. The nightmares Harry had had, of Louis with fangs and claws and eyes blazing red, killing his way through crowds of people, have finally stopped, and he _knows_ now, deep down, that a murderer is the last thing Louis could possibly be. It's hurt now, and confusion, that won't let him break out of his uniform routine of days filled with nothing, gather up courage to apologise and take the familiar route to the forest. He spends hours shut inside, with windows wide open to let in the freezing cold wind, and sometimes, he imagines he can scent him right there, in the air. An illusion. Like Louis wants to be close to him, too, wants him to come back home.

The last text Harry gets is from Niall, and it comes in the middle of the night. _Good luck, haz_ is all it says. They stop calling a week before the full moon, and Harry cries for three hours straight.

*

Harry stares at the cold walls of the garage surrounding him, and wishes, dejectedly, that he could just knock himself out for the night.

It's two hours until nightfall, and he can already feel his joints aching to reform. There's none of the anticipation, the twisted excitement he'd felt the previous full moons at being unrestrained and free to do as he wished – there's nobody to share those emotions with tonight. He's all alone, locking himself in the midst of cold concrete walls, held back from the world by a slab of metal. Everything feels like ice around him. The cold bites all the way into his veins, wrings at him and claws at his skin and squeezes his lungs until it's hard to breathe. 

He hopes for a quiet night, if only because the garage is not far from a small, cozy suburban neighbourhood. If he can find his anchor again, whatever it was that kept him calm and happy and settled during the last full moon, maybe he can just curl up in the corner and shiver his way through the dark, alone with his wild thoughts until the sun rises.

 There are no windows in the small room, and Harry is left in complete darkness when he locks the door after himself and pockets the key. He starts undressing slowly, unwillingly, hopping around to get his blood flowing and stave off the wet chill that sticks to his naked skin. He wishes, desperately, that he had somebody there with him to share body warmth, and to touch him in a way that the elements can't; softly, gently, with attention and emotion and _love_ , like he matters, like he isn't just another miserable person braving their way through the frost. He's been cold for days, really. He'd forgotten how to feel; his fingers have gone numb, along with his skin and his mind and his heart.

The floor is absolutely freezing when Harry takes off his shoes and reluctantly peels off his socks. He folds it all up neatly into a relatively dry corner, and settles in the middle of the room on a threadbare, torn-up blanket he'd brought. He has no way of telling where the moon is; his heartbeat increases with every minute, and the now-familiar restless rattling deep in the marrow of his bones rises slowly in anticipation, but he can't see the sky, doesn't know when to expect the wolf to start pounding on the inside of his skull, trying to get out. He focuses on breathing, on the human side of himself, tethering himself with things like love and pain, things that the wolf can't feel. Thinks that maybe, if he's lucky, he might get through the night without turning into a wolf at all.

It's a little over two hours later that the shift starts. The strength of it is unexpected, takes Harry's breath away, and his hold on the wolf slips away smooth and painless. The fur prickles as it covers his body, thousands of small pinpricks of pain, and the colours bleed out of his vision as everything around him changes. It's familiar by now, the physical sensations, but it's what's in the wolf's mind that has Harry running scared. It's too overwhelming, and he's too tired to hold on for long. He stands back and surrenders. 

The wolf is agitated and confused by the dark. It paces along the walls, sniffing at the cold night air coming in from underneath the metal doors, but there are no traces of its packmates, of the small, bright one. There is so much unfamiliar bubbling underneath its skin, an anger that seems to be directed at the entire world, but there is nothing, no one, to take it out on. The walls don't give under its claws, don't give when the wolf throws itself at them again and again until its bones crack, and the metal of the door holds fast even under a barrage of teeth. There is a blanket that it tears to pieces, savouring the feeling of fabric ripping in its mouth, and then it turns on itself. 

Its howls carry, echo around the room and come back to pound at the wolf's ears. It calls again and again, but the pack is gone; there's nobody, the wolf has been abandoned. It’s anger and sadness and disappointment and too many things all together, too sentient, too human. It bites its own paws to stop it, to focus back on the pain, to try and fix all the mistakes the human had made by not being good enough. The wolf howls again, tears at its own throat with a paw, and falls to the ground whimpering. 

The night has only just started.

*

"I've gotta say, mate, you look like absolute shite.”

Harry wakes up slowly. It's a little like swimming to the surface after being submerged in water for too long, a fog that cradles him and lifts him up – and disappears little by little, until he's laying on a hard concrete floor.

The first thing that fully registers is the pain – Harry hurts absolutely _everywhere_. He can already feel his body mending itself, cuts sealing and new skin growing over the scars, but his entire body is a bruise, and his shoulder feels twisted, dislocated. He's tired of everything, and wants to just lie there and wallow for a little while, but then he remembers the voice. 

His eyes fly open immediately, a little too quickly perhaps, and there's a few seconds where all he can see is _light_. Painfully slowly, the empty garage takes shape around him, then the sunlight streaming in through the open door, and the figure crouching right in front of Harry like a guardian angel. He blinks furiously, just to make sure he's not hallucinating. 

"Niall?" 

And the smile, blinding white and stretching around his entire face, gives him away even in Harry's blurred vision. The next second, before his rational thinking can set in, Harry is ignoring the bleeding gash on his upper arm or his obvious nakedness, and throwing himself at the other boy with everything he has. He near misses, feels his hands almost hit the rough floor, but firm hands catch him and pull him in instead. 

There's no mistaking Niall's scent, unchanged from the last time Harry had been this close; it's chocolate and beer and various food items, something comforting like freshly mowed grass, and the lingering scent of the house that none of them seem to be able to wash off. Harry wonders about his favourite place, hopes that life had gone on as normal without him; it's a bit of a shock to realise, in that split second, that all of the boys have been there, have existed in the same time and reality as him, have gone about their lives while Harry was stuck in a limbo. 

"Hi," he mumbles into Niall's shoulder, doesn't question why he’s being held tight enough to bruise, why Niall is even here. He doesn't care, not now, possibly not ever, because Niall's hugs are the ultimate comfort, better than hot chocolate with marshmallows and fuzzy blankets all at once. Harry has missed him so badly, and he's not surprised at all when his throat closes and he starts crying without meaning to. 

"Hey, you," Niall says quietly right into Harry's ear, sounding a little wobbly himself. He runs a careful hand over Harry's shoulder blades as he pulls him a little closer. 

"What are you doing here?" 

Niall chuckles and ruffles the hair on top of Harry's head with a gust of warm breath. "You're _really_ loud, mate. Had to come see what you were up to." At that, Harry stills uncomfortably and pulls away. 

"You heard me?" 

"Nah," Niall grins, easy as breathing, "a friend of me dad's called, apparently heard a werewolf going crazy in here somewhere. I promised I'd go check it out." 

Harry is suddenly quite self-conscious about his nakedness. Over in the corner, his clothes appear thankfully intact. The night is still coming back to him in disorganised flashes, but he does remember the howling and the anger, the way he attacked everything, and the tattered remains of a blanket tangled around his ankles only remind him. 

"How did you know it was me?" he mumbles, looking down and rubbing his arms for warmth. 

Niall gets up to bring Harry his clothes, all the while humming contemplatively under his breath. "Not that many werewolves left in town. Plus, I've heard you howl before. I've got a very good memory for that," he taps his temple.

Inexplicably, Harry is touched. He's not proud of keeping a whole neighbourhood up, or alerting _werewolf hunters_ , but the fact that Niall knows him like this and is so nonchalant about it, it's just…well. It's Niall. 

They're quiet as Harry puts his clothes on, save for the sympathetic hisses Niall lets slip as he shamelessly watches Harry's wounds and scratches stretch and rip open and start bleeding again. Harry can barely feel them; he's gone almost completely numb from the cold. When he's done, he makes no move to get up, just sits and stares at the wall. He focuses on the sting of his skin stitching itself back together, and tries to form coherent thoughts. 

"How've you been, then?" Niall asks, breaking the silence stiff between them like ice, and his voice is warmth that thaws the morning frost around them. 

Harry has no energy to lie. "Crappy," he says, smiling humourlessly. 

"Fuck's sake," Niall grumbles as he sits down on the concrete, stretching his legs out in front of him, "Come back here." 

And Harry goes. 

He doesn't question it at all, really, the way his body naturally responds, instinctively moves to curl into Niall's human warmth; he's always been like that with the boys, and he's starved for their presence in his life. When he settles on Niall's lap and curls up like a child, revelling in heavy arms wrapping around him in comfortin and listening to Niall's heart beating steady and strong, feeling slowly returns to his fingertips. For the first time in days, Harry lets himself feel. 

"'M sorry," he sniffs into the shoulder of Niall's jacket, surreptitiously wiping his nose on it. 

"What for?" 

Everything, Harry wants to say. For hurting you and hurting Louis and being a dick and ruining your jacket and being confused. 

He doesn't even open his mouth, just shrugs instead. 

Niall runs a hand through Harry's hair, unsticking it from his forehead, where it'd been matted with blood. "Haz." 

"Yeah?"

"I'm really not the one who needs an apology." 

Harry shudders at just the thought of coming face to face with Louis. After everything they've been through, after the nightmares, after what Harry's done to him, after he'd just _left_ without a word. "You're mad at me too, though. I hurt him," he says, voice small like a child's. It's the way he feels, right at that moment; too small for his skin, lost in a world full of things he couldn't possibly begin to understand.

"You did," Niall says simply, with a barely-there edge of steel in his voice. "But he thinks he deserved it. Liam and Zayn were seething and he was just sitting there looking out the window, like it was to be expected that you'd just walk out on him. He told us to _please make sure you were okay_." 

He sounds upset, and his heartbeat kicks up a notch. Harry knows how much Niall loves Louis, how much Zayn and Liam love him, too. He'd had the nerve to think he loved him more than them, in a way that was different, more special. Now, he mostly feels like slapping himself in the face, because he didn't deserve anything of what he'd had anyway; when Louis had finally opened up to him, something that Harry had been hoping for for so long, he couldn't even find it in himself to try and get an explanation. He'd been hurt, but he sees now; it had been nothing compared to what he'd probably put Louis through.

"You did try to make sure," he points out, remembering the calls and the texts he'd never even thought about deleting. 

"Not like you made it easy," Niall pokes him hard in the shoulder, but there's laughter in his voice. "Listen. What do you say we get out of here and go warm up in the car, yeah?" 

Harry has to admit that the heated seats of Niall's dad's Range Rover sound absolutely heavenly. Niall disentangles them slowly, helps Harry up and gathers the scraps of blanket for him to throw them out outside the garage. In the meantime, Harry checks the walls and the floor for blood, and is very grateful when he finds none. 

The day is even brighter than Harry had originally thought, pale with a sun that's too high in the sky for late January and damp with melting snow. The Range Rover is parked two streets away, stood inconspicuously in the midst of a gaggle of small city cars. Inside, the leather seats are freezing, but become blissfully warm minutes after Niall starts the engine. 

"Okay, listen," Niall starts, just as Harry is starting to melt into his seat and contemplating a nap. "I need to know what you think now. About what you found out." 

Harry had known this was coming from the second he opened his eyes to Niall's silhouette looming over him. It pulls him unpleasantly back down to earth. 

"I know that Louis didn't kill anyone just because he felt like it," he says, finally. He's a little surprised with his own conviction. 

"Obviously," Niall says, frowning, but his face slowly morphs into a small smile. "Good to hear, though. We had no fucking idea what to think." 

"I—I wasn't. Thinking, I mean. I was so confused, I didn't understand how Louis could have—"

"You should have gone and asked him," Niall interrupts. 

"I know." To his horror, Harry feels the familiar sting of tears coming on again. "I know."

"I just figured," Niall mumbles, reaching out and rubbing Harry's shoulder in small, comforting circles. "That you'd be ready, you know? I thought you guys were finally getting on the right track, what with him being your anchor—"

"What," Harry says. The temperature in the car suddenly feels like it's dropped below freezing. 

"What? You didn't think we knew?" 

"That Louis is my anchor?" Harry asks hollowly, and his mind spins out of control. 

It would make sense, in a way, and that's a terrifying thought. Harry's very first full moon never lived up to the horror he'd been expecting. He hadn't let go, not until Louis came and took care of him, and all his memories of the night after that are full of play-chasing and friendly little nips, just them running around and having fun together. What he remembers of his second full moon is virtually only Louis; his scent, Harry's nose buried in his soft fur as they looked up at the stars together, turning into wolves and back as they ran around the garden with wind in their ears. He hadn't given it much thought, then, how easy it had been to shift into his human form even with the pull of the moon so strong. 

"Well, yeah. I mean, you can tell, you know. It's not exactly a secret."

Harry blinks, mind blank. "I didn't. I mean," he clears his throat, trying to get his vocal cords to work again. " _I_ didn't know."

"You…what?" 

"I didn't know he's my anchor. I never realised," Harry says softly. 

Niall looks at him like he can't believe this is his life. "Harry. How do you not _realise._ You have to consciously pick an anchor."

"Do I?"

" _Yes_." 

"Well I didn't," Harry crosses his arms over his chest. Proving Niall is wrong is the better alternative to everything he'd thought he knew falling apart right in front of his eyes. 

"So. You're telling me that Louis's presence in your life-slash-mind-slash-subconscious is so strong that you just latched on to him and never thought about it?" 

Harry shrugs. "It was just…easy, when he was with me. I thought it was naturally better when you have another werewolf with you to calm you down?" 

"It's not," Niall rubs his forehead. "People have tried to put first-timers in with experienced werewolves, you know, to _help_ , and it's usually a bloodbath. I almost had a stroke when Liam called me and said Louis had gone and locked himself up in the basement with you.” 

"Oh," Harry says. Oh. It appears that Louis had risked being torn to shreds by a newly-turned Harry, just so Harry didn't have to go through his first full moon alone, and probably kill himself in the process of refusing to accept his wolf. Somehow, finding that out is not surprising at all, and it has Harry missing Louis so fiercely his entire chest constricts. "Well." 

"Yeah, Harry. You're _very_ important to him, okay? I hate explaining this shit because I've been taught to be in touch with my feelings and I know how to talk to people, but you obviously don't. He probably loves you, and you fucked up, and you need to fix it now because he's been _insufferable_." 

"What do you mean?" Harry asks, a little curious and a lot desperate. 

"He's been setting shit on fire, and he's not been eating, and he orders us around like we're his minions, but he insists that he's just fine and dandy. I mean, we miss you too, but Louis is refusing to be a functioning human being right now." 

And the thing is, Harry can see it so clearly, Louis walking around the house irritable and snappy and so vulnerable just under the surface. He aches to hold him, and hopes that he's not fucked everything up badly enough that he'll never get a chance to again. 

"But how can he just—how will any of you take me back, after this?" 

"Haz," Niall looks at him imploringly, bright blue eyes staring all the way into Harry's soul. "We fucking love you. You're, like, one of my favourite people in the world. We've all dealt with Louis’s past differently, and we all fuck up sometimes, but we always come back together, because we're family. Got it?" 

Harry gulps, overcome. "Yes, sir." 

Just like that, Niall smiles sunnily at him and revs the engine. He steps on the gas and takes them speeding down the street. 

"Where are we going?" Harry asks, patting self-consciously at the blood still on his face, though he has a feeling he already knows. 

"Home, obviously," Niall grins at him and narrowly avoids a mailbox. 

Harry had been stupid in so many things, lately. As they speed down the sunlit streets of suburban London and he angles his face to let the light warm him, he thinks about second chances, and about fighting for his with everything he has.

*

As expected, the house has not changed at all. The shingles on the roof are still crooked and droopy, and the attic window still whines in the wind.

When they walk through the front door, though, what hits Harry as immediately unfamiliar is the sharp smell of blood in the air. It's tangy and cloying, almost choking, and thinking about where it came from has Harry panicking slightly. 

Next to him, Niall is frowning and looking around the foyer. "Lads?" he calls, but there's no answer. 

Harry's nose leads them to the living room where, as they're wont to after a full moon, Zayn and Liam are spread on the floor in a mess of blankets, sleeping, Loki curled up by their feet. They look peaceful, their hearts beating strong and fast and their breathing steady. In the kitchen right opposite, there’s a noise like dishes clinking once both Harry and Niall realise who’s missing.

"Where's Louis?" Niall whispers, pulling Harry out of the room with him and softly closing the door. It's a rhetorical question, really, seeing as Harry has lost the right and the opportunity to know. Still, he sniffs the air to see if he can catch the familiar scent. It hits his nose right as the back door shuts with a click, and he only has a few seconds to gather himself. 

"Niall?" Louis says from the back of the house, approaching slowly. "What are you—oh." He stops, staring at the two of them standing confused on the front stoop. He zeroes in on Harry immediately, and his eyes are—they're indescribable, really, full of emotion Harry can't pick apart to analyse. 

Harry doesn't quite know what he'd been expecting Louis to look like after two weeks, but this wasn't it. He's standing surprised in the foyer in loose trackies and a jumper (the one that Harry got him, his mind screams), hair tousled, and there's a long gash right down the side of his face that's still healing slowly - it must have been down to the bone for it to take that long. He still looks absolutely breathtaking, has Harry's heart swelling in his chest and beating overtime with how much he's missed him. 

It's in those five seconds where everything stands still that Harry realises; he _loves_ Louis with everything he has, like the sky loves the sun, and he wants to take away his pain, to heal him, soothe him and hold him until the world is burning down around them. His hands are itching to reach out and touch, to pull Louis close to him and finally feel warm again; he wants to kiss him, leave promises of _never again_ and _for as long as you'll have me_ and _forever_ pressed into Louis's lips. 

"Hello," he croaks out, feeling utterly wrong-footed. He is, apparently, shit at apologies whenever they matter. 

Louis looks impossibly small and scared and vulnerable when he answers, "Hi." 

Quietly, Niall reaches out to squeeze Harry's shoulder once, reassuring, and slinks away to the kitchen, closing the door behind him. They're alone now, their breathing loud where it reverberates off the wooden floors and patterned wallpaper. Neither of them speaks. 

"What are you doing here?" Louis asks, finally. His voice breaks clean through the stifling atmosphere in the room, embeds itself into Harry's heart all anew and has his stomach fluttering excitedly, a touch of a thousand butterfly wings. 

"I. Um." Harry comes a little closer, trailing snow behind him. "I came to apologise." 

"Harry. I told you, you have nothing to apologise for," Louis looks at him, almost sympathetic. 

"No, I really do. What I did was—there are no words, really, and I wish I could explain why, but I don't know myself." 

They're moving closer to each other, slowly, step by hesitant step. With every inch closing between them, Louis's face comes into sharper focus, reveals tired bags underneath his eyes and a dissatisfied wrinkle by the corner of his mouth. It aches, not seeing those lips curled into a smile, the one Louis used to reserve just for Harry. 

"You were scared," Louis offers.

Harry hangs his head, self-conscious about the blood on his face and his holey boots and his too-big presence. He doesn't want to admit it; hates himself for ever thinking it, and it has his cheeks colouring in shame. "I was." 

"That's understandable." 

"Maybe," Harry laugh humourlessly, "but it's not okay." 

"Haz, listen to me," Harry's heart jumps to his throat at the nickname. They're so close now, so close he can almost feel Louis's warmth, could just barely graze the graceful slope of his nose with his fingertips if he reached out. "I told you I wouldn't blame you if you didn't come back. You found out…what I've done, and it scared you, and you ran. I understand that. I'm a monster. I've done terrible things. I kept everything from you for far too long, you should have known what you were getting into from the start. All of this was a terribly bad idea really, wasn't it," he smiles a little, and there is no joy behind it. 

Harry shakes his head sharply and closes the rest of the distance between them. He looks down at Louis, counts every pale freckle and every eyelash, every inch of the man he loves. 

"You're not a monster, Lou. You're a werewolf, sure, and so am I. So are Liam and Zayn. That's not what makes us monsters. It's the things we do, and the things we feel, and I know," he stops and clears his throat, dropping Louis's shimmering gaze. He can't look at him for too long. "I know that, whatever the circumstances, when you," a breath, "killed someone, it wasn't because you enjoyed it, and it wasn't because you wanted to. I told you that I know all I need to know about you. You're the kindest person I've ever met, and you love the boys more than you love yourself. You'd give them everything and keep nothing and you wouldn't even blink. That's not what a monster does, Lou. I trust you, and whatever you've done, I've seen how much it hurts you still, every single day. If anything, it only makes you more human."

When he forces himself to raise his chin back up, Louis is looking him in the eye. He looks stripped bare, walls crumbled and masks thrown away, and he's _radiating_ emotion. Harry can smell it on him, spilling out all around them until it closes them in a bubble together, the overwhelming scent of sadness and Louis's slack, awed face. His eyes are exploding like small blue galaxies, scattering stars all around them and giving Harry all of Louis to see, the most precious gift of all.

"I'm—" Louis starts, then clears his throat and wipes at his eyes. He misses a single tear that runs down the side of his nose and loses momentum at the corner of his lips. They've been crying a lot around each other, Harry thinks idly. "How can you be like this?"

Harry doesn't understand. "Like what?" 

"I don't know," Louis shakes his head and starts trembling slowly, wrapping his arms around himself. Harry almost steps forward, but holds himself back in the last second; he's not allowed to, not yet. 

"Could you—is there any chance you could forgive me?" 

Louis looks at him again, bright. "There's nothing to forgive, Haz. Nobody's—nobody's ever come back for me, you know. Once they leave that's it, they don't come back. And you're—well." 

"I don't deserve forgiveness just because I have basic human decency," Harry points out. 

"You deserve forgiveness because you're you," Louis tells him softly, and smiles. It's the sun coming out after weeks of rain. 

Harry can't help the sting of tears in his eyes, and he refuses to try and stop them running down his face. He's happy and sad all at once, bittersweet, but Louis is here, in front of him, looking like everything Harry could possibly want. 

When Louis closes the last millimetres between them and throws himself at Harry, it's both unexpected and absolutely wonderful. His arms wrap tight around Harry's neck and he lays his head firm on Harry's shoulder, toes barely touching the floor. Harry holds him, presses their chests together until their heartbeats become one, and buries his nose in Louis's hair. 

"I'll make it up to you," he murmurs into Louis's ear, fire and determination. Louis sniffles and pulls him closer. 

Harry knows they stand there, swaying in the hall, for a very long time, but he can't find it in himself to let go before Louis asks him to. It's too much and not enough all at once, Louis's scent and his ribcage expanding with shaky breaths right underneath Harry's arms.

"I missed you so much," Louis chokes out into the damp skin of Harry's neck, hitching on a small sob. It breaks Harry's heart all over again, having Louis in his arms falling apart like this, and he doesn't hesitate to pull Louis up, let his legs wrap around Harry's waist to hold him firmer, let him know in any way he can that he's here to stay. It's warm and heavy deep in his gut, the knowledge that Louis needs him. 

"I missed you too, Lou," Harry says, soft through his own tears. "I'm sorry." 

Louis slaps him half-heartedly on the shoulder, face still hidden. His voice rings with fondness when he speaks, "Don't be." 

Harry is warm all over, almost burning. The heat of Louis's skin seeps through all of their clothes and settles comfortably around Harry's aching bones, wrapping him up safe and sound and chasing the cold away.

Even when they've both settled down, tears dried and breathing even, not saying a word, Harry doesn't let go and Louis keeps holding on. He's stuck to Harry like a koala bear, arms and legs locked tight, and it's both incredibly intimate and intensely happymaking. Harry doesn't care for the outside world one bit, doesn't feel like wondering what the other boys are up to, if they've woken up yet, and he loses all his carefully constructed apologies in the moment. 

When they finally, finally let go, by some unspoken mutual agreement, Harry's arms ache pleasantly. The gash on Louis's face is healed and gone. 

"Was it bad?" Harry asks before he can stop himself, automatically reaching out gentle fingers to slide down Louis's cheek. 

"Last night?" Louis smiles a little, the skin underneath Harry's hand creasing. "Not my best." 

Harry wants to hit himself. It feels like he's got an inflated sense of his own importance, thinking Louis's wolf had been cruel to him just because Harry was gone, but. It's a gut feeling, plain and simple. It never should have happened. 

"What about you?" Louis frowns worriedly, small hands pushing Harry's jacket off his shoulders and sliding down his arms. Harry's scratches are gone, too, even the ones that were still bleeding as he was walking up to the house. 

"Yeah, um. It was shit," he says honestly. He thinks telling Louis what he'd just found out might be a bad idea, but keeping it from him seems even worse. "You're my anchor, apparently." 

Louis freezes in place, completely still. His eyes are big and round and glistening with surprise, and it takes him several tries to make a sound. "Me?" he asks, small and broken right in the middle, with that scratchy, rough voice of his, like he's just woken up and padded into the kitchen bare-chested and sleepy. 

"I didn't know," Harry says honestly. "I didn't pick you to focus on, but you're just…you're always there, I guess." He's looking at the ground; can't quite handle the look in Louis's eyes. 

"Oh. Harry, I…I don't know what to say. That's—are you sure you don't want to pick something else?" 

Despite everything, Harry can't help the chuckle that escapes him. "No, Lou," and it's the one thing in his life he's absolutely certain about. 

"What if I—what if something happens? What if you're angry at me? The wolf won't understand, you'll tear yourself apart," Louis says, moving again, slowly running a hand across Harry's chest, like he's looking for a heartbeat. 

"It didn't understand last night, either," says Harry, remembering the deep, unsettling, overwhelming feeling of confusion. "And I felt so wrong when I woke up. All I could think about, before I even realised Niall was there, was making this right."

Louis smiles then, just a little. "You did, but I'm really not the best choice. I know you're an unrelenting optimist, or whatever, but things _can_ go wrong, Haz." 

Harry shakes his head. "I just have to make sure I don't screw up anything else." 

They stare at each other for a while, both determined. Harry is mostly flushed pleasantly, because Louis _worries about him_ , and he's smiling right now, shaking his head like he can't believe Harry is a real person. 

“Is there any chance I could kiss you?" Harry asks, brave and elated, before he can think it through and see it for the terrible idea it is.

To Harry's surprise, Louis only hesitates and bites his lip for a few seconds. Then, the invisible pull between them, the _thing_ that Harry still hasn't found a name for and couldn't explain if he tried, pulls them towards each other, chest to chest. Louis's face smooths out, his wrinkles disappear, and he smiles at Harry, lovely and warm. 

As far as kisses go, it's a very, very chaste one, barely a press of lips. But when Harry feels Louis's fingers dig into his shoulders as he raises himself on his tiptoes, and finally gets a taste of his mouth again, it feels like sparkling cider and fireworks, like the toast he'd promised himself on New Year's – to new beginnings.

*

Once they brave the cold and emerge from the house, the wan winter sun is just beginning to set. The boys are still sleeping, apparently having been up all night trying to contain Louis, and Niall had gone home for dinner. It feels like it's just the two of them, alone in the world as they walk through the garden, a glimpse of a future that makes Harry's breath catch.

"Care for a walk?" Louis asks suddenly, breaking through Harry's quiet thoughts and the crisp afternoon air. 

"Sure," Harry smiles, agreeing mindlessly before Louis's question even processes. He couldn’t refuse Louis anyway. 

They jump the fence and start meandering slowly deeper into the forest, where the trees get thick and bare branches weave strange patterns above their heads. Harry is holding Louis's gloved hand lightly in his own, savouring the connection, and waits, high-strung, for Louis's words to interrupt their comfortable silence. He knows why they're here, he can feel it in the air, and he wants Louis to be comfortable; to make him feel as safe and reassured as he possibly can. 

They almost get to the very top of the hill that the forest rests on, idly following a squirrel that's limping along the forest floor. Harry feels sorry for it and picks it up, uses the trick Zayn had taught him to take on some of its pain. The small animal snuffles curiously at his hand, beady eyes glistening, and squeaks excitedly when Harry sets it back down. It shimmies up a tree in a flash of grey-brown fur. When Harry reaches his hand out for Louis to take again, he finds Louis smiling at him, only the crinkles by his eyes visible from underneath his scarf and beanie.

It's so _lovely_ , so domestic, to be taking a walk like this; they're floating on the thin layer of snow and the fog of their breaths and each other, and Harry hopes that the things Louis is about to tell him won't weigh them down any more than they have to. He can shoulder some of them, he hopes, help Louis carry his burden and ease the worry lines that have been etched into his forehead ever since Harry has met him. He just wants to _be there_ so desperately, make Louis understand that nothing could ever make him turn away, not again. His only problem is that he doesn't know how; he wouldn't trust himself either, not yet and maybe not ever. He'll need time, and he hopes Louis can give him that much. 

It's when they finally reach the top, looking out over the naked branches sloping gently down in front of them, that Louis speaks. 

"Harry," he says, and the one word alone carries too much sadness for somebody to feel. 

"I'm here." 

Slowly, Louis nods, looking around. There's a flat boulder nearby, slumped underneath a cluster of trees, placed very conveniently for early evening confessions. The sunlight is dying in-between the tree trunks, disappearing from the blue dome of sky visible above them as Louis leads him there and sits him down. He never lets go of Harry's hand. 

"You know what I want to say to you," Louis says, standing red-cheeked between Harry's legs, stating a fact.

Harry gulps. "I have an idea." 

Slow and intense, like this could be the last time, Louis kisses him. He holds Harry's face firm in his hands, tilting it up, and slots their lips in-between each other. He bites gently on Harry's mouth, doesn't hesitate to bring his tongue out and wait for Harry to open up and let him in. They're warm and wet, slick where they slide around each other, and Harry feels the passion he'd built up in himself for Louis bubble out in quiet moans. They kiss all-consuming and deep, but not rough; Louis's lips stay soft and pliant the whole time, worshipping, giving instead of taking. There's so much palpable emotion behind it that, for a moment, Harry is convinced he could reach out and touch it. 

Finally, Louis pulls away with a soft sound, lips shiny and wet, eyes glistening. His beanie is on a little crooked, and he lets Harry fix it with quick hands. Then, with a look that's pure apprehension, he steps back, out of reach of the warmth of Harry's body, and pulls his scarf high enough to hide most of his face. He sits down on the other end of the boulder, so far away they might as well be worlds between them. Harry doesn't know what Louis is feeling, so he doesn't complain. 

He can wait. Everything can wait. 

"Did you know I wanted to be an Alpha?" Louis asks, out of the blue. Harry blinks. 

"Taylor told me," he says, wishing he could lie. The memory only brings sadness and pain and images of blood painted on virgin snow. 

"Yeah, well, Taylor's got it a little skewed, I bet. I don't really care for it much anymore."

"Why?"

"I'm about to tell you," Louis laughs without humour. "I just—there's too much pain behind it. It's the be-all, end-all of the werewolf world, being an Alpha. Wolves are _killed_ for it, just for a spot of power and a set of red eyes." 

Harry nods slowly. It seems easy enough to understand, put like that. People have been killing for power for millennia. 

"Do you—I don't know if I've ever told it like this, so I. Do you want to hear the whole story? How I got here and why I am the way I am?" 

He's so painfully open it's hard to look at. It's obviously breaking his heart, baring everything to Harry like this, and Harry wants to reach out and close him, tell him to keep everything close to his heart the way he would have if Harry hadn't come traipsing into his life.

"You don't have to tell me anything, Lou," he tries. 

"I do. Can you just—I don't know, act like you want to hear it?"

Harry wants desperately to close the distance between them, use physical touch to reassure. "I want to, but I can see how hard this is for you. I worry that you feel obligated, or something." 

"No, Haz," Louis sighs tiredly. "It's fine. I don't feel _obligated_ , I want to tell you, you deserve to know. You've just…been here, without taking anything from me, and you've made me better, and. This is the only thing I can think of that I can give you back." _I can give you me_ , is what he doesn't say. It's everything Harry has ever wanted anyway. "And I want you to know because I'd like to kiss you a lot in the future."

Harry's stomach flutters. He can't take Louis's hand, but he does try and convey everything he's feeling in his smile. "I want to hear the whole story." 

Louis relaxes visibly, now that he has some direction, and fidgets in his place. "Okay. Well. I was bitten when I was fourteen, but you already knew that. It was a dying Alpha running from a group of hunters, and I think she wanted to create as many new wolves as she could before they got her for good. I happened to be walking home from school and get in her way."

It's only the beginning, and Harry already has trouble sitting so far away instead of being draped all over Louis. He imagines him, fourteen, raging and obnoxious like every teenager, being thrown into this; things that Harry himself could barely deal with at nineteen. He'd told himself he was going to let Louis talk, but he can't help blurting out the question. 

"Did you have someone to help you?" 

Louis smiles crookedly. "Bobby found me when they were chasing after her." 

"Bobby? Horan?" 

"Yeah, they were the best hunters in the Isles then, went all over. He saw how young I was, gave me the basic rundown, and he wanted to go home with me and tell my mum, but I wouldn't let him. I literally turned and ran from him. Shit, I was terrified." 

Harry nods. He understands, even if just a little. 

"And I—I don't know. I went to the library and found this really shady book that said I needed to know how to control the wolf, so I locked myself in the basement for two days and tried to shift on command as many times as I could. I lied to mum and told her I was playing video games," he chuckles, weaving his fingers together and squeezing. "I didn't want to put my sisters in danger." 

And Harry can't imagine a lot of things in the story, has no idea what Louis looked like when he was younger or what his family is like or where his childhood home is, but the one thing that doesn't surprise him is that Louis thought about others first and foremost. Any teenager turned into a beast ought to take time to feel sorry for themselves, but Louis wanted to make sure he kept his family safe from himself. He just took it in stride, and Harry wonders if, in the eight years since, he has had time to sit down and accept himself. 

"I went my first full moon without shifting. My grandparents were out of town, so I snuck out and hid in their garden and I just held it back. I don't…I don't remember much at all, to be honest, just that it _hurt_ so much," he looks up at Harry, taking him back to his own first full moon, to the agony of the wolf trying to claw its way to the surface. "And I went home after, didn't tell anybody. I was just really, really scared, you know? I hated what I was, and I didn't see how anybody else could be okay with it, so I started sneaking around and I didn't stop until I was seventeen. Which, you know, at least I found my anchor. Fear. It wasn't a good one, but it did the job." 

Harry thinks he might be crying already. A little. "You didn't tell anyone for _three years_?" 

Louis shrugs. The nonchalance he aims for comes across forced with the heavy weight on his shoulders. "I would've kept it up longer, I think. But…you know how sometimes you can't really control your eyes?" Harry nods. "I slipped up in front of Stan. I couldn't get out of it, and he was my best mate, so I told him and hoped he'd support me or something, I mean, we've been friends since we were in nappies, you know?"

Harry remembers Stan's name, and it's not fondly. He has a feeling he knows what's coming next. 

"He ran straight to tell my mum. And when I got home, she told me I needed to move out as soon as I finished school." 

"She just—"

"Yeah. But she gave me the house," he smiles a little. “Turns out we've already had a werewolf in the family." 

"Liam told me that somebody bought it in the fifties. And that there were mysterious sounds coming out of it, or summat.” 

"That would be my great-grandad," says Louis. "What a funny coincidence, eh." 

Harry inches closer almost imperceptibly. He's determined to give Louis his space, in both the metaphorical and the physical sense, but it's something his body has acquired as another instinct, now, to touch Louis whenever possible, especially if he seems upset. 

"Anyway. She packed my bags right after graduation, didn't even let me say goodbye to my sisters, and put me on a train. And now I'm here," his smile is bitter, and he looks lost in a different time. 

"Have you seen them at all, since then?" 

"No," Louis answers, nothing more than a whisper. His eyelashes flutter restlessly against his cheeks. "It feels surreal. The twins are ten now, and Fizzy's in high school. Lottie's probably got boyfriends. I just—I never thought I'd miss them growing up." There's a tremble in his voice that tells Harry everything he needs to know. He feels hollow. "I did meet Stan once though, when I was out in London, but he, uh. He didn't have nice things to say." 

"I'm sorry," Harry says. He can't comprehend the enormity of all this, the depths to which Louis has been made to suffer, and yet he's stayed as human as can be through it all. 

"Nah," Louis shakes his head, placating, and smiles at Harry with his eyes. "I've gotten used to it. My mum was just scared, you know, it's not really her fault. She used to tell me stories about my great-grandad, he was a scary man and she'd been terrified of him as a child, she didn't want to see me become the same." 

"Sending you away was not the solution for that," Harry frowns. 

"No. But it made her feel better. She doesn't know much about werewolves, she couldn't be sure I'd never turn on her or the girls, and I didn't want to make it more difficult for her. I love her so much, she's my _mum,_ for God's sake. I wanted the best for her, and if that meant I had to go, I had to go." 

_No you didn't_ , Harry wants to say. _That's not fair_. 

He keeps his mouth shut.

"Did Zayn and Liam ever tell you how they met me?" Louis asks suddenly, a clean break after the topic as he goes on in the chronology of his life.

 Harry is hungry for more, but at the same time, he wants to tell Louis to stop. It's obvious on his face, how much it hurts, reopening old wounds and tearing off poorly healed scabs. "No."

"Well, funny story. I found out pretty quickly that there were a few dozen werewolves in this forest and I went around introducing myself, but nobody wanted anything to do with me. I'd been a werewolf for four years by then, but I was a pup in their eyes, and they didn't know what to expect – I was basically an Omega, roaming the forest without an Alpha or a pack and I would be a liability if anything bad happened. Funnily enough, out of all of them, I'm the only one left alive," he huffs. "Anyway. This one time, I was hiding out in the bushes watching one of the smaller packs train – you know, combat and things, stuff we should all do, by the way – when I heard moaning from somewhere behind me. I found them snogging against a tree stump." 

"Oh my God," Harry can't help the laugh that's punched out of him. He'd have expected a concerned Liam finding an eighteen-year-old werewolf that lived alone and coming back to check on him, or maybe Louis stumbling across a sleepy Zayn in the forest somewhere, but – not that. It does explain some things, he supposes. 

"They were a bit put out that I interrupted them, but they did talk to me, and it turned out they'd been doing the same thing I was, because they'd just left some idiotic teenage Alpha and didn't really know how to werewolf, so. We made our own little training group, and it was pretty smooth sailing from then on. They moved in with me the year after that, and the rest is, y'know. History." 

Harry is suddenly violently grateful for Zayn and Liam. He knows they've been there for far longer than he has, and probably know Louis better, but he still feels like hugging them for an uncomfortably long time and thanking them profusely for being there. 

"What about the," he gestures vaguely around him, "snogging?" 

"Oh," Louis laughs, "I don't know. They've just sort of stopped it, I suppose, but I'm expecting it to come back any day now. They've been living like monks for the past few years, and they keep making moon-eyes when the other's not looking, so." 

"Zayn does ogle his bum a lot when we do yoga," Harry muses. Louis smiles at him brilliantly, forgetting for a moment where they are and why they're here. For the millionth time in the past ten minutes, Harry wants to slide over there and kiss him. 

"What about Niall?" he asks, genuinely curious. 

"He knew Liam from school," Louis shrugs. "Li brought him around one time, and he just never left."

"What did his dad do when he found out?" 

"He was proper pissed off, obviously," Louis grins. "And when he found out who I was, he actually tried to shoot me, but we convinced him we're alright. I think we've helped him mellow a bit. He's all protective of us now." 

"Good. You need someone like that." 

Louis smiles at Harry softly. A silence settles between them for a few minutes, lazy and comfortable. 

"You don't have to go on," Harry says, finally. 

"No, I do," Louis sighs. "It actually didn't feel that bad. You seem to understand." 

"I don't understand much of what you've been through, to be honest," says Harry, scratching nervously at his scalp. "And I can't imagine how it feels, living it, but. I'm just more in awe of you every time you open your mouth." 

Louis's cheeks, already pink from the cold, immediately redden, heartbeat stuttering audibly deep in his chest. "Shut up," he says, impossibly fond, and Harry does. 

"Okay," says Louis finally, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a white cloud that dissolves into the air around them. "This is the more difficult part." 

Before he can start, Harry moves closer yet again. "Could I—I mean, would it be okay if I held your hand?" 

"God yes," Louis says, sounding relieved, and his gloved fingers find Harry's quickly. "Alright." 

He's silent for a few more minutes, though. Maybe he's making up his mind, or gathering his thoughts, or finding the right words to say. Harry doesn't know; can't quite read in the stormy expression on Louis's face. 

"Almost four years ago," he begins, "Niall and I found a dead werewolf just down the hill from the house. Or, I mean. We thought he was dead." 

And just like that, Harry's stomach feels like it's filled with lead. He remembers the night they took him in vividly; most of all, he remembers the distrust in Louis's eyes and the venom in his voice. Like something like it has happened to him before, and nothing good has come of it. He has half a will to let Louis's hand go and cover his own ears, but. Louis needs – wants – him to hear this, and he's going to listen, no matter what. 

"It was around that time that the Swifts stared showing up and burning down lairs, and it wasn't really unusual to come across, like, severed heads and decapitated bodies, but he was just – lying there, face down on the ground. When we realised he was still breathing, we carried him in, because that's what you do, I suppose. He had an arrow laced with wolfsbane in his back, and another one right through his neck. He almost kicked it right there on our sofa, but Liam and I fixed him up and let him sleep it off, and we were left with a foreign-smelling werewolf unconscious in our living room, basically. Niall voted to carry him back to where we found him. Niall is very smart, by the by," the corner of his mouth quirks up.

"But you didn't." 

"But we didn't," Louis sighs. "I was paranoid. Thought that the hunters were going to come back for him, and I didn't want to leave him outside to die like that." 

"Didn't think you would," Harry remarks. 

Louis looks up at Harry with emotionless eyes, "I should have. " He looks away immediately, tugging self-consciously at Harry's hand, but Harry doesn't let him go and squeezes instead. Still, the steel in Louis's voice sends chills down his spine. 

Louis leans away from Harry, turning the toes of his boots the other way and bringing a shoulder forward to hide his face in. His eyes are closed, as if he's deliberating his next move. 

"He woke up after two days. His name was Greg, and I fell arse over teakettle in love with him." 

"Oh," Harry breathes.

"I mean. Not that it was ever reciprocated. I didn't really think about it much, and I wasn't good shape anyway, mentally. Wouldn't have worked." He gulps audibly, tugging a little desperately on his scarf, still wound tightly around his neck and chin. "But my own feelings worked against me in every fucking way imaginable." 

"He was…nice. Friendly with all of us, he knew a lot about being a werewolf and all that. Him and Liam immediately hit it off, I'd swear they were best friends within an hour, and Niall warmed to him as well. They begged me to let him stay the night, and I didn't see anything wrong with it," he smirks humourlessly. "I ate breakfast with him the next morning and I thought he was hilarious, and he got my jokes, so I invited him to come over whenever he wanted. We'd always been isolated, the four of us, and I thought somebody like him could do us some good." 

Harry's stomach lurches and trembles at the similarities. He hadn't really come off as hilarious back then, of that much he was sure, but _had_ needed help, and Louis had been convinced – by Niall, no less – to let him stay. 

"Pretty soon, he was – well, he came into our lives a bit like you, to be honest," Louis says, like he can read Harry's mind. "Started showing up out of the blue, always bringing us stuff because his parents were stinking rich, apparently. I liked the way he went about life, you know? Didn't care that he technically wasn't even human. He'd drag us out partying and buy us drinks until we were so piss-drunk we'd lie down and just sleep in the middle of the forest on the way home, and he'd cook all this horrible gourmet bullshit he'd learned when he was an exchange student in France, I mean. He was just carefree, a little like how I used to be before I got bitten, and I was jealous. Wanted to be like that again." 

Without a word, Harry strokes his thumb along the back of Louis's hand. His own feelings of jealousy, stirring low and dangerous in his gut, are so misplaced he refuses to give them any kind of voice. 

"And after a while, me and him, we—we got close. Like, best friends close. I'd call him all the time about everything, like a fucking schoolgirl with a crush, and he'd text me jokes he heard on the radio. And then he—fuck," he takes a breath. "I should have seen it coming from a fucking mile away, but I was too infatuated, I just wanted to feel better and he gave me that. Anyway. He invited me out to the cinema one night, just the two of us, and opened the conversation by asking me why I wasn't an Alpha."

"Why?" Harry asks, before he can help himself. He thinks he might see where this is going, but. Surely that can't be it. 

"That's what _I_ asked him," Louis says, frowning. "He just—shrugged and told me I seemed like a natural leader, what a crock of _shit_."

"But—I mean, Lou, you _are_. You're good at the whole werewolf thing, and the boys definitely trust your judgement. I'd bet you were the one giving orders when the Swifts were here."

Louis smiles slowly, privately. "I was. That's sort of—evolved in the past few years, though. Back then, I was nineteen and fucked up. And I had _no idea_ what I was doing. At home, I only had control because I was terrified that somebody would find me out. When I got here, I went off the rails, I'd run around the forest for hours and Liam had to teach me everything over again. So, you know. Crock of shit." 

Harry imagines it – nineteen-year-old Louis going wild in his wolf form, taking a rage he hadn't known he had out on trees and rabbits. Harry is curious what he'd looked like back then, with skin a little smoother and hair a little more flyaway, with worries that nobody could soothe. Harry knows the energy that flows bright underneath Louis's skin, and wonders what it looks like on him when it's not controlled, raw and wild. 

"Two days later, he comes to me asking if I know what a true Alpha is. Do you know what a true Alpha is, Haz?" 

Harry frowns. He thinks he's come across the term, but he hadn't paid it much attention. "I don't think so." 

"Officially, it's 'a werewolf that becomes an Alpha through strength of character or force of will'. Basically, if you're noble and selfless and haven't got anybody's blood on your hands, you've got a one in a million chance of just waking up an Alpha one day."

"I—really?" Harry hadn't known. Automatically, he thinks that Louis would deserve something like that. He'd know what to do with that kind of power. He'd use it for good. 

"Greg was obsessed with them. He was obsessed with Alphas in general, to be honest. He kept talking about it, more and more, about great power and great responsibility, and I thought he was exaggerating a bit and quoting Spider-Man,” he laughs bitterly. "I just didn't see. I mean, I thought it could be cool, but I wasn't planning on challenging an Alpha anytime soon, so I wasn't hung up on it much. Him, though, he just—started acting strange, I suppose. He'd call Niall's dad and ask him for information on rogue wolves, he read through all the books in the library. He wanted to be an Alpha really, really badly, and I just – I didn't understand it. I asked him to slow down a bit, just once, and he wolfed out on me right in the kitchen."

"Did he want to become one through force of will, then?" 

Louis rubs his forehead tiredly. His gloved hand is warm in Harry's. "Probably, yeah, but it didn't work. He spent six months chasing after it, and after that, we thought he'd given up. We tried to be there for him, as his friends, and he went back to being the old Greg for a while, he'd take us on road trips and stuff, but he started spending more time with each of us individually, and we slowly started to depend on him. We never did anything on our own anymore, we all just sat around and waited for him to come by and remind us how to have a good time together. He drove us apart, in a way." 

Harry keeps stroking Louis's hand. There’s an uneasy feeling spreading from the bottom of his stomach into his entire body, making him jittery and uncomfortable. For the first time since they sat down, he actually registers how cold the stone underneath them is. 

"But I never did anything, I didn't think I needed to. He'd never had problems with being a werewolf, and he was the only one of us who wasn't more comfortable just keeping to himself, so I thought it was a good thing, you know?" he looks at Harry, like he's actually asking him to understand. "I thought we could just – be normal teenage boys for a while. Zayn had just started uni, and he was spending all his time with us instead of, I don't know, living his life, and I felt responsible. I might have wanted to live vicariously through him a little, if I'm honest."

"You never got to be that carefree, did you?" Harry asks gently.

"Well," Louis shrugs. "I was pretty horrible when I was fourteen, just did what I wanted, but after—yeah. I knew a lot in theory, but when I'd get invited to a party I'd just turn it down, because that many smells and sounds at once made me lose hold on the wolf sometimes. So I. I don't know. I handed the reins over to Greg and just went along."

"Wait," Harry says, suddenly. "Was he—"

Louis interrupts him with a laugh. It’s dry, small. ”Trying to become an Alpha by proving he can lead a pack? Yeah.” He breathes in, out. “I didn't really realise the boys looked to me for guidance, even back then, and by the time I got it it was too late. I asked him to knock it down a peg, and I just woke up with red eyes the day after." 

Harry breathes in sharply. "You mean you were…" 

"A true Alpha, I guess? I have no idea why it happened, and it was gone after a few hours, but he saw, and I could tell he was angry. I was such a—God, I actually felt _bad_. I told him that I didn't want it anyway, that I wouldn't know how to lead a pack, and back then I actually thought he might feel the same way that I did, or that he was my best friend, at least, so I expected him to… I don't know. I guess I expected support. I was in unexplored territory, and the boys just sort of sat around me and hugged me and told me it was going to be fine, whatever it turned out to be. And Greg turned on his heel and left, and we didn't see him for a week. And then the Swifts came for us." 

Involuntarily, Harry clenches his hand tighter. He's still watching, every time he walks through the forest, on the lookout for blonde hair and blood red lipstick. 

"We weren't prepared at all. None of us knew how to lead in a fight. There were about seven of them, with actual burning torches and poisoned arrows and machetes and fucking flare guns. I thought we were done for," Louis breathes. He's starting to shake, a tremble that comes from the very marrow of his bones. "And when Greg showed up to fight by our side, I didn't think much of it, I was just happy we had help. We mostly just dodged and ran around for hours, trying to avoid being hit until they ran out of ammo, and when they started with the machetes, we went after them teeth first. Werewolf bites are quite terrifying, did you know?" he smirks and blinks furiously. "If we got one of them, they wouldn't know if they'd be turned or die or if they'd get away unscathed, so they wouldn't risk it. They set half the forest on fire instead." 

Harry has the picture clear in his mind, the dark smudges crawling up the paint at the back of the house. He shudders with the thought of it going up in flames, rickety wood turning to ashes and bringing the entire thing down. 

"They didn't get the house, obviously. Mostly it was just dry leaves that burned, and a tree caught fire, and then Niall ran in with a fire extinguisher."

Harry wonders if that's a habit of Niall's, coming in at the last minute to save everybody's arse. 

"We—I mean, don't get me wrong, I have no idea how we did it, but we made them retreat. We…” he trails off, breathing speeding up until he’s near hyperventilating, hand squeezing Harry’s hard enough to break bones. 

“Louis?” Harry asks quietly, trying to get him to calm down. 

“I’m fine,” he chokes out, though he’s obviously lying. “It’s just—I don’t think I can talk about it, like this.” 

“That’s okay. That’s okay, you don’t have to—“

“No,” Louis interrupts, twisting himself out of Harry’s gentle grip. “I need to do this. I can show you.” 

“Show me?” 

He nods, slow, and even panicked and trembling as he is, he exudes an air of authority when he stands up. His nails extend into claws. 

“This…this might hurt. I’m sorry,” he says, and softly slides his hand to the back of Harry's neck. 

Harry breaks out in goosebumps at the feather-light touch. He barely registers the pressure until Louis’s claws slice into his skin, sharp and vivid, like a thousand needles at once.

Harry opens his mouth to scream or question Louis or _something_ , but before he has a chance to, Louis closes his eyes and the forest around them changes. The air fills with fog and smoke, a mixture that’s almost too thick to breathe, and the colours around them bleed out until everything is otherworldly and pale. 

He recognises the place easily - they’re standing to the right of the house, underneath a cluster of bare-branched trees. It looks different that it did just a few minutes ago, newer, somehow, less crooked and beaten down. The windows are whole, and the black smudges crawling up around the back porch are missing. 

It’s then that it clicks. “This is a memory, isn’t it?” he asks Louis, who stands stock-still beside him, fingertips stained with Harry’s blood. Harry has near forgotten about the wound already. His skin has stitched itself back together and left no signs of it behind. 

“It is,” Louis says, far away and low. He’s curled in on himself even as he stands, hands in his pockets and looking at the ground. 

The air around them ripples with an explosion somewhere down the hill, followed by a cacophony of voices. Harry recognises Niall and Zayn immediately, sees them running towards the house just a second later, Louis’s and Liam’s wolves sprinting up the slope beside them. They huddle together under the front porch, close to the ground. Niall is covering his ears. 

Louis leans against Harry’s side and touches his fingertips to Harry’s hand, like he’s checking it’s okay. Harry intertwines their fingers without hesitation.

Harry can hear the yelling, still, even through the thick fog that's settled on all his senses; voices with foreign accents, groans of pain and barked orders.

"We thought we were safe," Louis smiles sadly as he watches himself trot around, checking on everyone and peering out into the trees. There's smoke rising from the burnt wood and leaves, making it hard to see. Somehow, he looks impossibly young. 

"What did they do?" Harry asks. His heart aches for the hopeful, curious expression on Louis's wolf's face, like he thinks that maybe they've won a fight without even being fighters. It's then that he hears it, and the wolves inside the memory perk up a second later. 

It's a slight whistling sound, one that reminds Harry of cartoons, and it gets louder with every passing moment. The grenade hits the tree to Louis's left and sends him flying backwards. 

Seeing it play out in front of his eyes, Harry moves on instinct, claws already extending as he tries to butt in. It's only the warm fingers holding on tightly to his that stop him. 

When Harry looks back over his shoulder, Louis is giving him a wobbly smile. "I'm here, Pup," he says quietly, and pulls him back. Harry buries his face in Louis's hair for a moment, just breathing in his scent, and wills his racing heart to slow down. 

In front of them, wolf Louis is lying motionless on his side, a sharp splinter of wood embedded in his thigh. Zayn and Liam are shaking their heads, probably trying to get rid of the ringing but otherwise unharmed, and Niall is running down the slope, expression furious as he tries to notch an arrow without looking at his hands. Harry is reminded of the fierce, protective fire in his eyes when he'd sent Taylor off, and imagines it was burning just as bright in the moment they're watching. 

"Wait," Harry says suddenly, surveying the scene, looking futilely for a fifth wolf to complete the pack. "Where's Greg?" 

Wordlessly, Louis raises their joined hands to point at his own still form. The wolf is barely visible from where they are, pale fur blending in with fog and smoke, only standing out starkly where it's matted with blood. From the thick air behind him, Greg limps out slowly - a big, red-brown wolf with dark golden eyes, ears laid flat against its skull and teeth bared. Next to Harry, Louis starts shaking. 

"I haven't seen it like this before," he whispers, pressing in close and forceful like he's trying to meld them into one person, looking over at Liam and Zayn picking themselves up carefully. Harry wraps him in his arms and his warmth, tries to give everything he can give to let Louis know that this is over. After today, he's not coming back here. 

Niall is shouting a little ways down the hill, the only sound to pierce the silence, and Harry can make out the metallic drag of blades and hollow sounds of fired arrows. He's sure Niall can handle his own, and sure that the Swifts, no matter how heartless, wouldn't kill somebody who's human in their eyes, but he still silently wills someone to go down there and keep an eye on him. As if on command, Liam finally stands up, lifting his crooked front paw to let it heal with a sickening crack, and runs off towards the noise. 

Greg is standing still above Louis now, looking at his body rising and falling with feeble breaths. He waits patiently, completely frozen like the explosion never happened so close to him he probably still has ash in his eyes. Zayn is watching silently from the side while he tries to get enough energy to shift into his half-human form again. Harry is familiar with the distrustful tilt of his eyebrows, and eternally grateful that Zayn doesn't trust all that easily. 

They wait and look on with baited breath, Louis trembling in Harry's arms. Finally, Louis's wolf starts waking up, and that's a sight Harry has seen countless times before. He always looks the same, a little disoriented, a little like somebody has hit him around the head. His tail wags and thumps against the ground a few times as he opens his eyes blearily, looking up. Harry can tell that Greg is the first thing he sees, but he doesn't make a move to change the vulnerable position he's in. It's obvious how much he trusts Greg still, how much he believes he's here to help. It breaks Harry's heart.

He had seen it coming, seen it in the shadow on Greg's face and the lethal stealth in his step. Still, when Harry sees him raise his paw, claws thick and sharp, he freezes. He watches it happen in slow motion right in front of him, and he absolutely can't breathe; he barely holds on to Louis, reminds himself that this is about him, it's the warm, real, alive Louis he should focus on, but he can't take his eyes off the scene. Greg growls dark and low one moment, right before Louis's wolf jerks and tries to stand up, and the next, he's going for Louis's throat. He aims well, paw coming down with enough force it could break Louis's jaw, but he never gets there. He's inches away from tearing Louis's throat out when Zayn slams into him, growling and still human, and sends them rolling down the slope. 

Harry sees the shock on Louis's face, even as a wolf, watches his nostrils flare in surprise and wide eyes search the clearing for explanations. Harry turns to his Louis immediately, nuzzling his face where it's buried in the lapel of Harry's coat. He runs his hands over Louis's back, rubbing in comfort, and he forgets everything that's playing out in front of them. Louis is falling apart, breathing erratically, and Harry desperately wants them to leave.

"I'm so sorry, Lou," he whispers into Louis's ear, presses it with a kiss into his temple. "We can go, okay? Please, let's go." 

"No," Louis gulps, surprisingly loud. His voice is steady, strong, one that shouldn’t right be coming out of his trembling body. "No. It's almost over. You need to see." 

For a second, Harry contemplates telling Louis that it's upsetting him, that he doesn't need or want to see, but he catches his selfishness this time, stops it before it can go any further. Louis is the one suffering, and he still took Harry here because he trusts him. Harry categorically refuses to do anything to betray that trust. 

He settles down then, and watches the wolf pull the splinter out with its own teeth, opening the wound and staining its fur with fresh blood. It trickles down Louis's thigh all the way into the ashen forest floor, hot enough to steam. 

In an eerily familiar scene, Greg's wolf runs back onto the clearing, emerging from the smoke like a ghost. Zayn is right behind him, finally armed with claws and teeth, running hunched on all fours. They circle each other when they catch up, growling all the while. Even as far as wolves go, Greg looks barely lucid. He's got steam rising off his fur and foam at the mouth, the picture of a killer. 

"I still can't believe he could just do that," Louis says faintly into Harry's shoulder. "It could have been a one-time thing, for all we knew. Me becoming an Alpha was such a far-off possibility," his voice shakes. "There was no guarantee he'd become one, the chance was one in a million, but he still took it. He was going to tear my throat out _just in case_." The bitterness and sadness roll off him in waves, so strong Harry can smell them soaking his coat, and he feels absolutely useless. He doesn't know what to do except hold Louis tighter. 

"Look at him," Louis whispers. "He'd always been like that, and I couldn't tell. He wasn't carefree or upbeat or energetic, just obsessed with power." 

"Always?" Harry murmurs. 

"Watch," Louis tells him, so he does. 

Wolf Louis had already picked himself up by then, putting unsure weight on his hind leg as he moves closer to his friends staking out each other's weaknesses. He rumbles lowly at Zayn, which Harry automatically recognises as a command to step back. Zayn retreats without thinking; they all see Louis's eyes flash red before they flood with the unfamiliar gold again. Despite the situation and his heart beating its way out of his ribcage, Harry can't stop a slight smile. That's what Louis was born to do, he thinks – to lead people, bring them together by loving them as fiercely as only Louis can. 

He is still weak, though, when he stands opposite Greg, and he doesn't seem convinced. He looks his years now, with his tail tucked between his legs and his head hung low; a betrayed young boy that doesn't have it in him to go up against somebody he loves. 

They lunge at each other gracefully, each of them with clear purpose, but Greg's wolf is savage in the same way a wild wolf might be, and he's dragging Louis to the ground by the nape of his neck right out of the air. Zayn is positively vibrating on the side, eyes a piercing gold, but Louis doesn't take his command back. Just as Harry thinks it's over, despite Louis breathing right inside the circle of his arms, just as Greg bares his teeth and lunges with an animal force, Liam comes running up the hill, dirty and haggard. They're followed by another explosion. 

This time, it's far enough that it doesn't hurt anyone, but the pressure wave lifts them off their feet again. Harry watches in horror as Louis and Greg, still locked in each other, tumble right down the slope, into the smouldering remnants of some blueberry bushes. Above them, one of the shorter trees breaks with a sickening crack, and the top half of it thuds heavily to the ground right where they've disappeared.

Harry’s breath hitches. ”Are you—"

"Come closer," Louis tugs weakly at Harry's hand, obviously not quite convinced that's what he wants to do. 

"You can stay here," Harry looks back at him in concern, trying to be reassuring even when the thought of letting Louis go right now has him panicking. "You don't need to." 

"No," Louis says and shakes his head, stepping forward, shaky but determined. "I want to see." 

They walk quickly along the forest floor, not disturbing a single leaf on the ground – they seem to move effortlessly, glide, quick and silent like the ghosts of the future that they are. Liam and Zayn are sliding down the hill blindly, waiting for the smoke to clear, but Harry and Louis get there first. 

There's blood all over the forest floor. Harry can smell it before he sees it, even through the ash stinging in his nose. When the smoke starts lifting, revealing rough shapes of the world around them, Harry recognises the broken tree – and a person trapped underneath it. He squeezes Louis's hand reflexively. 

Like a ghost, almost translucent, Louis's light fur shines its way through the dirty air around them. It's a light at the end of the tunnel, a hope, a reassurance. Louis is fine, breathing steady and walking more confidently now, circling the tree and looking on. He appears and disappears again, in and out of their sight.

Coming a little closer still, Louis tugs Harry to stand next to the tree. It's Greg that's gotten trapped underneath, wholly human, and he's soaked in the metallic smell of blood. Harry has to lean forward to realise; one of the short, thick branches on the lower part of the tree trunk has pierced its way clean through Greg's side. He's completely trapped underneath the massive weight on him, and he's spasming more than breathing. After a second, Harry has to look away. Louis's wolf, too, finally comes to a stop right next to Greg's head, looking down on him with an expression too complex for an animal. 

"He'd die if you left him like this, right?" Harry asks quietly.

"Not anytime soon," Louis replies, leaning more into Harry's warmth. Sometime between leaving the house and stopping here, he's composed himself, standing ramrod straight and staring straight ahead. It's an act. "His body would give up after twelve hours, maybe, and then he'd bleed out, but right now, he feels everything."

Harry doesn't have a hard time believing that at all. He had been shot before, and thought it was agony, but looking at Greg's face, he knows it could have been so much worse. The branch has probably fractured bones that move with his every breath, and Harry knows, he knows with a terrible sense of finality what's happened and what's coming, but he still wouldn't wish this kind of suffering on anyone. Not on Greg, and not on his worst enemy. 

"H-help me," Greg wheezes suddenly, a trickle of blood running down from the corner of his lips. Next to Harry, Louis starts shaking again. 

Zayn finally finds them, Liam following soon after, and they both shift to try and lift the tree. Louis closes his eyes, then shifts back into a human right in front of them, an impossibly young, scared boy. The transition is not as seamless as Harry is used to, bits of fur still disappearing behind Louis's ears when he grabs on to the rough wood, not sparing a look for his best friend. He looks so, _so_ young; Harry is absolutely struck with the difference a few years can make. 

The wood is dense and heavy, impossible to move even for three strategically placed werewolves. Harry has seen Liam lift up the tail end of his car before, and the way his muscles are straining now takes Harry back to muddy, bleak December, when things were just a little bit simpler. 

"Do it!" Greg snarls, the sound coming out horribly distorted, deep and gurgling. It makes Harry sick to his stomach. The three of them double their efforts, but it's useless – the trunk stays in place, crushing Greg underneath and driving him into the soft forest floor. His eyes colour golden with unrestrained rage; his features look feral even in his perfectly human face. 

"You're going to let me die, aren't you," he says. He looks around him, deep into everybody's eyes in turn, and stops on Louis.

Next to Harry, his Louis muffles a dry sob. He's shaking so hard he feels like he's going to come apart in Harry's arms, and Harry runs his hands over his face, reminding him to try and breathe. "It's going to be over soon, okay? We'll leave. We can go any time you want." 

With eyes impossibly wide and a few tears shining on his cheeks, Louis nods. He breathes in through his nose, and turns back to the scene playing out in front of them. 

Greg is still staring at the younger version of him, what looks like an entire conversation taking place between them. 

"Zayn, go find a phone," Louis says, so quiet even Harry has to strain his ears. "Both of you." Harry sees the reluctance in their faces, but they turn and run off nevertheless.

Finally, when they're alone, Greg laughs. It's horrible and grating, a hollow sound devoid of joy. "That's what I thought. You're fucking—" he coughs, getting more blood on his face. "You're fucking pathetic." 

Harry is holding Louis now, wrapped around him as tightly and securely as he can, shielding him from memories inside his own brain. He feels the twitch at every single one of Greg's lashing words, and has to hold on when Louis recoils like he's been slapped. The nineteen-year-old him does the exact same thing. Harry knows a sore wound when he sees one. Louis has a unique way of going about those, Harry thinks – he disregards the physical ones, barely notices blood or broken bones, but inside, he's so bruised that it takes more than just time to heal him. 

"S-such a naïve, precious little flower," Greg says quietly. He needs a lot of time to collect his breath, and Harry thinks it's awfully convenient, the way he gives every one of his words time to sink in. "Thought you could s-survive like this, in a forest with a pack of strays. What a joke.” 

"I'd been doing just fine before you came along," Louis says, trying to stand up for himself. Harry sees the slight wobble in his knees, the tears in his eyes that he refuses to let fall, and smells defeat all over him. He knows Louis's armour, knows where to look for cracks in it. He aches to step out of the haze of memory, rub Loius's shoulder and tell him whatever he needs to hear right then. 

He's nineteen there, the same age Harry is now, the age of growing up and finding yourself and small betrayals; friends cheating you in a game of cards for a quick few quid, not-quite-girlfriends sneaking off to kiss somebody else behind your back and flatmates raiding your secret stash of booze. This, though, is so much more than anybody that young should have to take, and Harry watches in real time as Louis's heart breaks. 

"Yeah you were," Greg sneers, moving reflexively, angrily, and forgetting about the branch pinning him down like a preserved butterfly. His eyes roll back for a moment with the pain, and he passes out for a few terrifying, still seconds. His werewolf body goes against him, though, working its healing magic that wakes him up almost immediately. He's still catching his breath when he spits in Louis's direction. 

"I was just itching to come in and show you how it's done," he coughs. "You're too weak to be an A-alpha. You don't _deserve_ it."

Harry flinches. He holds Louis tighter and strokes his face where it's now pressed back into Harry's shoulder. _You're not, you do_ , he wants to tell Louis, and he will, when they're back home and safe. _You deserve it more than anybody. You deserve the world._

 __"When I heard you just appeared out of nowhere and set up camp, I thought _no fucking way_. And yet, there you were," Greg says, then stops to breathe for a fraction of a second. Harry feels rage start bubbling, red hot, deep in his gut. "So fucking eager and trusting. I'd never have thought you'd be so easy." 

"Oh _Greg_ , you should come by to watch this new film we got," he imitates in a childish voice, and Harry wants to sever his vocal cords. "Oh _Greg_ , I'm not sure I remember the combat move you taught me the other day, could you please show me again when you come over? You may as well have played the fucking wedding march whenever I walked in the door." 

The younger version of Louis is crying openly now, standing perfectly still and alone against this man, this—monster.

"You should really work on that, you know," Greg says, sneering. "Anybody could just come and _use you_. I mean, did you really think it was fun, blowing my money on a bunch of teenagers, pretending I was having the time of my life? It was torture, waiting day after day for the perfect opportunity. And then, when I was almost there—" his eyes flare gold as he bares his fangs. Louis is standing, limp and frozen, and looking on defeated. "You should have stuck to your fucking place. What gave you the right to think you could just come up to me and ask me to _back off a little_? This is _my_ pack. _I_ command you." 

Harry's Louis hiccups and shivers, pressing himself against Harry hard enough to bruise. He rubs his face against the patch of Harry's coat that's wet with tears, cheeks and eyes red. Harry presses his lips against Louis's temple as softly as he can, holding him tight. He hopes Louis doesn't notice his fists balling up tighter with every word that comes out of Greg's mouth. 

The other – _past_ – Louis finally wakes up a little, and Harry is in awe to see fire still burning in his eyes. 

"You don't. Nobody commands us."

Greg scoffs. "You might get to be a naïve little Alpha soon. Then you'll command them." 

Louis blinks away his tears. "I'll _lead_ them. And if they’ll want to, they'll follow." 

Harry's heart is both breaking and swelling to three times its size. Louis is _incredible_ just for standing up there, with so much betrayal evident in his muted movements and the hard lines on his face.

Greg laughs, loud and booming under the canopy of trees, wasting all of his breath. "As I said," he coughs. "Naïve. What do you think's going to happen once you've got red eyes? They're gonna challenge you for it. Liam can fight better than you can. He'll _kill_ you."

"He won't," Louis replies, stone-cold and certain. 

"Just to make this clear," he moves imperceptibly closer, folding his hands behind his back. "When you came here, it was because of us." 

"Obviously," Greg says, rolling his eyes at the sky. "You don't just hear about a bunch of Alpha-less Omegas playing house with a human. It was my perfect opportunity. I would've been an Alpha, I'd be _feared_ by now if you hadn't gotten in the way." 

"So you just…wanted to kill me, today? Is that why you're here?" Louis asks, and he can't quite keep his voice steady. It breaks right in the middle, just as Harry tightens his hold on his Louis. He's seething by now, trying to contain his wolf and breathe, but he's having a hard time. It's a primal urge, animalistic, to protect the man he loves, his sun, his Alpha. The wolf wants the ground stained with more blood, and Harry wants to let it. 

"I wasn't going to let you steal it from me," Greg's voice peters out into a sharp whisper, curling around them all like the hissing of a snake. There's blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth as he breathes sharply, eyes wild with pain and rage. "Nobody would notice anyway. _Nobody wants you."_

 __Harry's vision is tinged red, and he almost misses it when Louis's eyes flare. He has his claws extended, fingers bent and hands shaking like he's holding himself back. He looks wild.

Harry has trouble recognising the emotion, simply because he rarely ever sees it on his Louis; it's _anger_. Louis's constant restless energy is laser focused now, his entire body vibrating with it, and he looks like he's seconds away from pouncing, even in his human body. Harry wants to transcend time and space and join him, let him know that being angry is perfectly fine, that the war he seems to be waging with himself is needless.

"Aaw," Greg coos fakely, spitting blood again. His face is as white as the smoke around them, drained of colour. "Such a cute little puppy. You think you can take me on? Come here, then. Maybe you'll have a shot now that I can't move." 

Louis is so visibly angry and hurt at the same time, and the present Louis has fallen apart and put himself back again right in Harry's arms. He doesn't speak, but the way he's tensed and quieted, breathing steady through his sobs, tells Harry something is about to happen. He feels nauseous and dizzy, full of reckless anger and anticipation. This is it, probably. Soon. He's not sure he can just stand there and watch. 

Louis takes a few slow steps through the soot and crouches down by Greg's head. His hair is disheveled and obscuring his eyes, but it's plain to see how destroyed he is. He shakes with sobs in one moment and anger in another, clenching and unclenching his fists. His claws have retracted. 

"Oh, spare me the soap opera," Greg says, eyes cold in the face of Louis's devastation. Harry takes a moment to be astonished; to think about how deep a cruelty like that has to run. He's had an idea of the things power can do to people, before, but it's staring him in the face now, so much harsher, the way reality tends to be. "No, I was never your friend. I couldn't stand you," says Greg, and Harry thinks he hears his heartbeat kick up a notch with the lie. 

He wants to cry, or turn back the clock, take the two of them back to where they genuinely enjoyed each other, and convince Greg that just having Louis, being his friend, is the most empowering thing in the world. 

"I figured," Louis says brokenly, and his fangs flash white when he looks up at the sky. He reaches out a hand towards Greg, clawless and harmless. 

"No!" Greg snarls, flinching away. The grass underneath him rustles, his words echo in the emptiness around them, and the branch in his side breaks off. The tree trunk wobbles, losing its only support, and in horrifying slow motion, it falls. Harry feels nauseous at the loud crack of bone. 

Louis looks immediately guilty, eyes panicked. "Please just—Greg, just let me." It's only now Harry realises that Louis is trying to help; to take away Greg's pain. 

_It's special_ , Zayn had said to him once, _to be able to relieve somebody just by touch_. _You have to mean it. You have to want to help._

 __Greg's eyes are closed, eyelids fluttering. Harry thinks his body might be giving up already. “Alright. Come closer," he whispers, reaching out his free arm.

All of Louis's anger seems to dissipate; he looks young and betrayed again when he falls on his knees and crawls closer to his dying best friend. He looks so _relieved_ , so hopeful, so glad to have disarmed Greg of his rage. Just like that, Harry knows exactly what's going to happen. 

It's slow, really, almost bizarre in its gentleness. Just as Louis comes to a stop, crouching gingerly right at Greg's side, Greg raises his free hand. The claws gleam, sharp and dangerous, perfectly poised to sink into Louis's neck again. Louis is oblivious, though, as he puts a shaky hand on Greg's chest and closes his eyes. The veins in his arms blacken as the other man's pain flows into him, and Greg's rattling breath steadies immediately. The wrinkles on his face disappear in obvious relief. 

Louis gasps, cradling his hand against his chest. The blackness flows in intricate patterns through the web of his veins and leaves him keeled over, moaning and near breathless. 

Harry knows Greg has seen his chance. Louis is twitching, restless, trying to cope with the suffering he's inflicted on himself, and not paying attention to his surroundings. Greg raises his hand, tendons straining, and hits. 

Louis notices in the last split second and ducks away; Greg's claws tear deep gashes in his skin, but don't pierce through. Louis looks down at him; when Harry gets a good look, he looks absolutely feral. His eyes seem to be burning, almost, drowning in a gold more intense than Harry has ever seen, and he snarls as he bares his fangs. The pain is still in his veins, Harry knows, black lines crisscrossing Louis's upper arms and face and only fading slowly, and he knows that's what's made Louis like this. Maybe he'd taken in more than physical suffering. Maybe the hunger, the rage on his face are not all his own. 

Maybe they are, and Harry still doesn't care. 

The memory starts flickering around them, black patches bleeding in like ink, and the scene in front of them narrows down to the two werewolves. In Harry's eyes, it looks like a series of snapshots. 

It's Greg snarling back, using all his strength to try and pick himself back up. 

It's Louis balling up and holding his head in his hands, completely vulnerable. 

It's Greg freeing his other arm with a sickening crack and launching himself as far as he can, getting Louis's neck this time. 

It's hot red blood matting Louis's hair. It's Louis howling in pain. 

It's Louis pulling away, Louis charging, and Louis tearing out Greg's neck in a single swipe. 

It's horrifying, and feral, and absolutely tragic. 

When the sudden, frenzied movement stops, Harry sees the gold in Louis's eyes pale. It simmers down to a light yellow as he looks around him, like he's only just coming out of a daze, and then explodes in a hypnotising, electric blue. His eyes fill with tears at the same time, flitting over Greg's body like all of this is an illusion. He doesn't take his gaze off Greg's empty, bloodied face when he crawls closer on his knees and puts both his hands to Greg's chest desperately, trying and failing to take away the pain. There is no more pain to be felt. 

It's to Louis's desperate, heartbreaking howl that Harry feels claws sink into the back of his neck, just a little too deep. Colours and smells and sounds swirl around him, and in the next moment, they're standing back in the familiar forest. This time, everything is vibrant with autumn oranges and reds, and the soft layer under their feet is fallen leaves instead of ash. 

Neither of them have let go, standing still and clutching each other as they settle back into their reality, back into their bodies. Sounds trickle back to Harry slowly: a distant chirping of birds, a hum of fallen leaves in the wind. Louis's sobs. 

Before Harry has time to clear out his mind, just as he's started to breathe in and out and settle into the things he's seen, Louis virtually tears himself out of his arms. He pushes Harry back with a hand on his chest, and he looks like he desperately wants to run, but his feet aren't obeying. Harry stands still for a split second, breathing out in shock at Louis's force. 

"Lou," he says, as soft and careful as he can. "Louis, don't. You're upset, please let me hold you." 

Through swollen eyes, Louis looks at him. He can't stop sobbing, it seems, and his chest is fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. "You-," he takes in a breath, "you want to?" He's trying desperately to wipe all his tears away, like he doesn't want Harry to see, still. 

"Yes," says Harry, taking a tentative step closer. "Yes, Lou, I do." He extends a hand into the gaping space between them, a small spot of warmth in the ice that seems to have settled over them both. His mind is spinning in mad circles, so much so that he can't think, and maybe right now he shouldn't. He wants, _needs_ the comfort of Louis safe and sound in his arms. 

Louis tamps down on another sob, trying to take Harry's hand in his own, but it's shaking too badly. Harry watches the familiar frown of concentration take over his face. 

"I can't," he whispers, taking in a hitching breath with a desperate sound. He's concentrating on his hand, bending and extending his fingers, but the shaking is out of his control. He looks overwhelmed, the same way Harry feels. 

"It's okay," he says, lowering his voice as well. "Come here. If you want." He opens his arms just a fraction, enough to show Louis that he means what he's saying. 

Louis nods frantically, wiping at his face again. His cheeks are red from the cold and from the rough fabric of his jacket, but his steps are firm and quick on the forest floor. He stops just in front of Harry and looks up at him. 

"You should…" he motions around him with his arms, like he's not quite sure what to say. 

"Not just yet," Harry tells him lowly. "I want to take care of you first." 

Louis tries to smile, but the corners of his mouth wobble and fall. "Okay," he whispers breathlessly, swallowing the word. "Okay." 

Harry pulls him in slowly, softly. He brings them together, tight against each other, and buries his nose in Louis's hair. His palms are splayed wide on Louis's back, feeling the jerky rise and rapid fall, rubbing softly as he tries his best to soothe. Finally, _finally_ he feels himself give a little, a few cracks in the dam he'd built to hold everything back for the moment. It's just enough to bring him relief and let him cry a few tears, feeling less like he's strung taut and moments from snapping. 

He'd been hoping Louis would calm down after a while, and his heart would stop racing so fast, but Louis is still breathing rapidly into Harry's neck and digging his fingers into Harry's arms through his coat. He's still incredibly tense, nothing like the usual, when Louis slumps into Harry pliant and boneless. Harry tries to wait it out, let him have as much time as he needs, but ten minutes pass with soothing words and gentle touches and Louis is still on the verge of hyperventilating. 

"Lou," he murmurs, and Louis jerks. "Lou, I know it's easy for me to say, but I think you need to calm down." 

Louis shakes his head. When Harry pulls back, he's opening his mouth, but not saying anything. He looks wrong. 

"What is it?" Harry asks immediately, holding him at an arm's distance. "Can't talk?" 

Louis nods, miserable and frantic. The shaking gets worse. 

"Okay, okay," Harry says, trying to mask his slight panic. "We need to help you breathe slower." 

Louis puts one trembling hand on Harry's chest, right over his heart, and Harry understands. He immediately starts pulling in exaggerated breaths, letting his chest rise and fall underneath Louis's small hand.

"That's it," Harry says, gently. "You're okay, you're going to be fine. You'll get through this, yeah? I'll help you," he keeps babbling. "In and out, okay? Breathe with me for a bit." 

And Louis does. He keeps his hand on Harry's chest, staring at where his fingers are splayed over Harry's black shirt, and takes in a deliberate, slow breath, and then another. Little by little, he settles down, and Harry stares at his face and pets his hair all the while. 

When their heartbeats are in an almost matching rhythm of only a little bit frantic and Louis no longer sounds like he's drowning on dry land, the eerie silence in the forest finally catches up with them. Their breaths are matching puffs of white fog that intertwine and fade away. 

"Was that a panic attack?" Harry asks quietly when they've been standing in silence for a few minutes.

"Not quite, I don't think," Louis says, just as quiet. "But close. I—it felt—" he starts breathing faster again, and Harry immediately stars running his hands over Louis's back in hopes of helping, somehow. "I felt like I was dying," Louis breathes. 

Harry strokes his face lightly, ignoring the sting of tears in his eyes. Louis looks haggard and tired, like he's aged twenty years since the last time they were standing here – his face looks bruised purple underneath his eyes, his lips chapped and dry, and the usual spark, the energy and exuberance that sets him apart from everybody else is somewhat dulled. He looks pursued.

"You're alive," says Harry uselessly. "You're right here." 

Tentative, Louis smiles the most timid of smiles and finally drops his hand. He steps closer to Harry instead, slides his fingers easily inside Harry's unbuttoned coat and around his waist, and comes forward to rest his head underneath Harry's neck. He snuffles and settles there, warm as he breathes over Harry's collarbone. His other arm snakes lightly around Harry's neck, pulling him that much closer. Louis has Harry pressed right against him, chest to chest, and his eyelashes flutter on Harry's skin like butterfly wings. Harry hugs back just as tightly. 

It's intimate and wonderful as so so _close_ , and Harry thanks his lucky stars that Louis still feels like he can ask for this, and hopes that he knows he'll always, always get it. No matter what happens from now on, Harry is nothing if not consistent. He'd chop his own arms off before he'd stop himself from touching Louis. 

It doesn't last long, though. Louis takes a deep breath right by Harry's ear, and Harry knows that the illusion is over. 

"So," Louis says, shaky but sounding infinitely more put together than before, "you saw that." Harry thinks he might be putting up provisory walls, building on bravado that he doesn't feel, just in case.

"I did," Harry says. "I don't know what I'm feeling right now, to be honest." Louis stiffens almost imperceptibly. "Not like that," Harry says immediately, squeezing where his hands are resting comfortably on Louis's hips. "I just—I don't know. I need to let it go through my head." 

"Do you think I'm a monster?" 

"Lou," Harry breathes into Louis's hair. "I've told you before. No, I don't. I don't think you're a killer, either." 

"I did…do it, though," Louis says. He sounds like he's fighting another battle, and Harry doesn't want to be that for him. He wants to be a safe place, just like the boys are; somewhere Louis can come rest his head and drop his worries. 

"I know. But it's not—it's not black and white. You must have been in so much pain," Harry says, remembering Louis's face once it hit him, the unnatural black blood that spread underneath his skin like a disease. 

"That's not an excuse," Louis presses his nose into the dip just above Harry's collarbone. He exhales. "But I was. I don't…I don't remember all of it, just that the wolf was so _angry_ all of a sudden. I'd thought I had it under control, but it was madness. My blood was on fucking fire, I felt like I was gonna die, so I gave up control to make the human side of me stronger, too. I wasn't quite myself until I saw the blood, and that just—it makes it even worse." 

"How?" 

Louis laughs humourlessly. "Because it means I could to it again." 

For a moment, Harry freezes. He'd always though of Louis as perfectly in control of his werewolf side, a master at keeping balance, but their wolves, like actual animals, can be unpredictable. Control can fail. Mastery might not be good enough. He can't imagine himself in so much pain, emotional and physical, trying desperately to hold on to rational thought. He'd probably give in, too. 

"Couldn't any one of us, though?" he asks. 

"Maybe," Louis says. "But this was…it was an extreme situation. If I'd been pinned under the tree, my wolf would've been dying with me and given in eventually, but because I took it away from someone else, it just…panicked. You know those moments when your wolf feels like it exists completely separate from you? That was one of those. It was survival instinct, it wanted to take over and protect itself. If that happened to any of you, I'm sure you could hold it back, but I was nineteen and not ready for any of what happened that day. I wasn't strong enough." 

Immediately, Harry shakes his head. "You've always been strong enough." 

He feels one corner of Louis's mouth quirk up against his neck, and imagines his face – a mix of self-deprecating and amused and that little twinkle he has in his eye whenever Harry says something particularly strange. "Thanks. I'm not sure you'd be saying that if you knew me at nineteen, but thanks. I try." 

"You do a good job of it," Harry assures him. Louis squeezes his shoulder. "And I think you need to stop taking all the blame." 

Louis pulls away. He stays in the circle of Harry's personal space, but his hands fall limply to his sides. His voice is hard when he speaks. "You haven't actually lived it, you know." 

"I know," Harry says, soft. "I don't know how you felt then, or how you feel now, but this has obviously been with you every single day since then. Two years is plenty of time to grieve, and I think…I think you need to let him go, and you need to let go of who you were. I only saw you for a few minutes when we were in there, but I can tell how different you are now. You've become so much stronger, and you have people around you who love you," he clears his throat, looking pointedly at the tips of his own shoes. "You don't deserve to beat yourself up for the rest of your life." 

Louis shakes his head. "You make it sound like I stole a pack of gum. I _killed_ someone, Harry," he says. His voice breaks, but he stands sure. 

"You did," Harry nods. "That someone betrayed your trust, broke your heart, and tried to kill you twice."

"That doesn't make me not a murderer," Louis raises an eyebrow. He reaches and touches Harry's sleeve with light fingers. Harry turns his hand and clasps their hands together. 

"No," he concedes, smiling sadly. "But it makes you someone who had a reason. People have killed for a lot less. I just—I _believe_ in you, so much. I didn't for a second think that you wanted to do it, and I don't think you ever would again. If you think that makes me a fool," he smiles softly. "Well. I can live with that." 

"Harry…" Louis says, and stops. His fingers twitch in-between Harry's.

Harry shakes his head, runs his thumb over Louis's palm. "I'm not saying let's forget about it right now and never bring it up again. We have all the time in the world to figure this out, Lou."

"Promise?" Louis asks, shuffling his feet restlessly. He looks and sounds so incredibly small, and Harry hears the real question underneath. 

"Promise," he smiles, reaching out to run his fingers over Louis's cheek. "I'll be here. Whatever happens." 

Louis nods mutely. When he looks up, the waning evening light hits his eyes at an angle, and for a second, Harry thinks he's looking at a young Louis, fresh-faced and golden-eyed. As the evening turns blue with the setting sun, he doesn't drop Harry's gaze, looking at him with eyes shining like galaxies. 

For the first time since they've left the house, Louis looks relaxed. He's got a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step, the corner of his mouth quirked up, always ready for a laugh. He doesn't hold back the way he looks at Harry, a little like he hung the moon, and it makes Harry's heart beat out of time. He's— _unrestrained_. They have a lot to talk about, and there's a lot of thinking to be done, but just for the moment, under the slowly rising stars and holding Harry's hand, Louis is pure light – the eye-catching, stunningly beautiful man Harry had fallen in love with. 

"Let's go home, yeah?" he smiles at Harry gently, and never lets go of his hand. 

Harry's thoughts are dark and heavy as he slowly walks downhill, but the lightness in his chest whenever he looks at Louis eases the burden. They swing their intertwined hands between them and don't speak. Harry listens to the whistle of the wind and Louis's strong heartbeat.

 _I'm already home_ , he thinks.

*

"You're a fucking arsehole."

"I know—" 

"No, seriously. What the _fuck_ where you thinking?" 

"Zayn," Louis butts in, finally. 

As expected, the lights inside were on when they'd gotten back to the house. Zayn and Liam had been awake, sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea, and when Harry stepped foot in the kitchen, all hell broke loose.

Which brings Harry to the current situation, in which Zayn has surpassed every shade of red and is going straight for purple as he yells and doesn't stop to catch his breath. 

"Louis," says Zayn. His jaw is clenched, tendons jumping in anger. "What the fuck is he doing here. And _where have you been_."

Louis sighs and moves closer to Harry. Harry is infinitely grateful; as mellow and easygoing as Zayn usually is, seeing him truly angry is terrifying. Harry thinks his protectiveness over Louis and his loyalty to him is absolutely wonderful, but he's currently standing on the wrong side of it, and he feels like small prey about to get eaten. 

"He's here because he came to apologise," Louis says, calm. Harry's heard him use the tone of voice before; it's soothing and soft like silk, weaving its way through Harry's panic and Zayn's rage and tethering them back to reality. Even Liam, who has only been standing and glaring at Harry menacingly, relaxes a little. 

Zayn doesn't seem surprised to hear the news, but none of the hard lines disappear from his face. "And I suppose you forgave him. Just like that." 

"Yes," Louis says simply, voice firm enough to stand his ground. "And it was my decision to make, not yours." 

"Bullshit," Zayn spits. "You made it my decision when you started moping around the house and acting like a little brat." 

"Zayn," Liam says from the back, quietly. 

"No, Li. We all complained about him, don't you dare throw me under the bus." 

Louis shakes his head, frowning. "Look. I know I’m…not the easiest person to deal with, yeah? And I'm sorry. But Harry ran out because of me," Harry physically flinches. His hands immediately itch to touch Louis. "And I'm the one who gets to take him back." 

Zayn softens a fraction. He looks tired and sad, underneath the angry façade. "You know how much I hate to see you get hurt," he says, turning to Louis. They smile at each other. "And I don't want it to happen again if you make a _mistake_ ," he looks at Harry, face gone steely again. 

Harry hangs his head, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the tile floor. His cheeks are burning with shame, the word _mistake_ running on a tireless loop inside his head. "He's not," he manages to speak up, raising his head to look Zayn in the eye sheepishly. "Making a mistake, I mean."

Zayn, for once, looks taken aback. "You're awfully sure of that." 

"Harry," Liam says, abandoning his mug in the sink and coming forward to stand next to Zayn as a disgruntled Loki jumps off his lap. He, too, looks drained of energy, with hunched shoulders and purple bruises underneath his eyes. "I'm sure you've explained yourself to Louis." 

Harry nods silently. Behind his back, Louis strokes his wrist. 

"And if he thinks you deserve his forgiveness, then you do. But it was…difficult for us, too, to see him like that. You know how protective we are."

Harry nods again, and fights the painful lurch of his heart. Right now, he's not a part of the 'we' Liam is talking about, and it's his own fault, and it _hurts_.

"So it'll just…take a little time. I hope you can give us that." 

Harry nearly falls over himself in his haste to reply. "Of course. Thanks, Li. Liam." 

Liam rewards him with a soft smile, and reaches out for a second like he wants to touch Harry, clap him on the shoulder at least, but he pulls back just before he makes it awkward. Next to him, Zayn tilts his head distrustfully, but he lets it go. The deep wrinkle on his forehead disappears as he stares into Harry's eyes for what feels like eternities, then nods shortly and sits back down. 

Harry doesn't quite know what to do, wants to call it a night and go back to his hall, but Louis sighs next to him and takes his hand again. It's become a bit of a _thing_ for Harry, holding hands – it tethers him and calms him down, makes him feel like he's not alone in anything. Louis is tangible when he's touching him, real, and that's something Harry still has trouble believing on occasion. 

"Mind if we join you?" Louis asks, even though he doesn’t technically need to, because it's his house and his kitchen. Zayn and Liam nod at the same time.

Harry takes it as a tentative invitation to make himself at home in the kitchen again. He puts the kettle on while Louis gets the teabags, and they dance around each other perfectly. At one point, Louis licks Harry's nose and sticks sugar on it. 

By the time they've settled down at the table, they're breathless with quiet giggles, clothes stained with milk. It's a wonderful throwback, so comfortable and eerily reminiscent of the weekend mornings he'd make Louis get up with him and let him watch as Harry made breakfast. 

Zayn, as expected, bursts their bubble when he takes a sharp breath. "Wait," he says, and sounds—well. A little flabbergasted. "You told him." 

Louis frowns and looks up from the bottom of his mug, where he'd been trying to draw a willy in the undissolved sugar with his spoon. "Yeah?" he says, like it's obvious. "What did you think we were doing outside for three hours?" 

"I—" Zayn shakes his head like he's trying to get water out of his ears. "I don't know. Running around? Chasing rabbits? Whatever it is that the two of you do." 

Harry looks between them, growing restless at the strange tension. He doesn't take what Louis had shown him for granted by any means, and he never will, but he also doesn't quite understand Zayn and Liam's twin shocked expressions. 

"How did you figure it out then?" Louis asks. He's looking at his spoon and twirling it around in his hand, seemingly fascinated by the way it catches light. From the slight stiffness of his shoulders, Harry figures he doesn't exactly want to have this conversation. 

"You," Liam says automatically. "You're—different. Around Harry."

Harry has to agree, just a little bit. He knows it's going to catch up to them and weigh them down later, the conversation they still need to have, but right now, he feels like both of them are on the same page. Louis's walls are down, gone from his expression when he looks at Harry, and Harry feels like he wants to turn himself inside out just to please Louis, to make him laugh. 

"Different how?" 

"All the—," Zayn waves a hand towards the kitchen counter, "giggling. And the way you move around each other. And you touch him in, like, unnecessary places. I don't think I've ever seen you like that with anyone."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Louis eyebrows climb up his face slowly; he doesn't know what he's insinuating, but Zayn seems to get it immediately. "Oh," is all he says, and then he looks directly at Harry. "Okay." 

Harry has half a mind to ask what just happened, but he knows he wouldn't get a straight answer out of either of them.

"So you…know," Liam says suddenly, tentative, and just like that, any trace of comfort is gone from the room.

"I do," says Harry. 

"And you're here."

"I am." 

"For good," Liam says, doubtful, like it's a question. 

Silently, Harry looks at Louis. He's still smiling, a hint of an amused spark dancing in his eyes, and he's got a sprinkling of sugar right at the corner of his lips. 

"If Louis'll have me," he says, holding his gaze the entire time; the look he gets in return gives him a lot of hope. Liam clears his throat then, and Harry realises he's been staring. "And if you will, of course," he continues, with the slightest hint of amusement. Of course they're all important to him, incredibly so, but right now, everything pales compared to Louis bright and content and smelling of joy. 

He gets a smile in return – a small one, but still there. Harry treasures it; contrary to popular belief, Liam's genuine smiles don't come easily. 

Later that night, just as Harry is about to stand up, untangle himself from Louis where they're sunk blissfully into the sofa and leave for the hall, he's stopped by a small hand holding on to his wrist. 

"Stay," Louis says lowly, smiling and iridescent in the bright light of the TV. Harry needs absolutely zero convincing, and when he wakes up the next morning, it's with a crick in his neck and a fire in his heart.

*

Spring is a wonderful time, Harry thinks, especially if one lives in a forest. It's somehow childishly exciting, finding the first snowdrops lighting up the forest floor with greens and whites, and when all the tiny animal babies start emerging, he is in heaven.

Harry’s birthday goes by, a quiet affair with his favourite boys, very nice booze-infused cupcakes and sparklers, courtesy of Niall. Zayn cuts out an actual Happy Birthday banner, letter by letter, and Louis supplies some suspiciously mismatched party hats. The walls Harry had built between them slowly start crumbling. They end the day by falling asleep on the sofa while watching _Ratatouille_ , and all in all, it’s one of the best celebrations Harry remembers having. 

Slowly but surely, with every warm morning in Louis’s arms, he heals. The nightmares come and go, always the same, always full of frost and blood, but the bright spring sun melts the fear away when Harry sits on the front porch with his tea. Louis whispers soft words into his shoulder, solid and reassuring, always by Harry’s side as this beautiful thing between them takes life and grows again. There are many steps Harry has yet to take down the road to recovery, but he knows that he won’t be alone for a single one.

He doesn't even notice the time slipping by, really, back to his usual routine of minimal sleep and desperate studying and running through mud. Niall in particular gets attached to him all over again, and he drags him out several times for bonding time. Zayn and Liam have started warming to him again, slowly, and they obviously try. It's more than he could ever have asked for. 

And Louis. Well. 

Louis is still wonderful, always wonderful. They're mostly back to the way they were before Harry fucked everything up, sharing secretive smiles and grinning when they accidentally brush hands. There's a trust between them, a shared happiness, and Louis is holding nothing back whenever he looks Harry in the eye. Their touches, though, as frequent and intimate as they are, always come to a certain point at which both of them get awkward. Harry halts where he would have pressed an affectionate kiss to Louis's temple before, and Louis descends into a coughing fit whenever he realises he'd been unconsciously staring at Harry's lips. And that conversation Harry meant to have? Somehow keeps not happening.

It's not that he doesn't want to breach the topic, it's just that, well, he doesn't. Louis is so, so happy most of the time it's almost painful to watch because, as much as Harry tries to fight the feeling, he's afraid it won't last. If he brought it up, he can imagine the exact shade Louis's eyes would be as his expression would fall; it goes against everything Harry is, everything that he wants and hopes for for Louis. As a result, the unease in his stomach builds a little every day, and it gets harder and harder to ignore. It's a fight with himself, really, and those are the worst kind. Harry is quite good at getting lost in his head. 

He'd like to do everything with Louis, is the thing. He wants Louis to be his for real, actual boyfriend, he wants them to fight over insignificant things and cry over sad animal films together and take cliché walks through the park hand in hand. He wants them to kiss and occasionally bump noses awkwardly and giggle about the sounds their tongues make, and he wants his bare arse pressed against every surface in the house as they christen the place. He wants them to actually be together when Harry is a useless uni graduate with a useless Bachelor's and Louis is still working in his beloved bookstore and hounding his boss for a raise, and after that, and in the far, far away future. He imagines what the house would look like all renovated and pretty and painted new, imagines colour schemes in pastels for some of the spare rooms and chasing tiny feet all over the place. 

He's in too deep, and he really, really needs to start unravelling this ball of Louis until it resembles a timeline that makes at least a little sense. Step one: Talk about things you're meant to talk about. Step two: Cut it out with the awkward moments and snog him properly. Step three: Find out what werewolf sex is like. 

Except he's still stuck somewhere just above zero. Louis had told him he wants to get it all out because he'd like to kiss Harry a lot, which sounds extremely promising, but it would be even better if Harry was capable of said kissing without behaving like an idiot. He _can't_ let himself fall into this, can't just start snogging him and never stop like he actually wants to, when there's still something that could drive them apart.

He resolves to work on it.

A couple of weeks into March, on a rainy, wet and miserable Saturday, Niall suggest they go on a picnic. Unsurprisingly, nobody wants to. Unsurprisingly, they still do, because nobody can refuse Niall anything. 

Harry is tasked with making sandwiches, which he quite enjoys, and listens to the sound of somebody banging in the attic looking for something that, years ago, was probably a picnic basket. After a short while, Louis joins him, smiling as he hops up on the countertop. Harry automatically starts walking around him on his trips to the fridge and back. 

"What delicacy are you making us, then?" he asks sunnily as he lifts a slice of bread with his pinkie and peeks inside. 

Harry slaps his hand away half-heartedly. "Sandwiches, Lou."

Louis claps, excited, like this is actually news. "Tuna?" 

"I have a couple of those as well, yes," Harry replies, smiling when Louis lights up. There's only one person in the house who likes tuna sandwiches. 

"Wonderful. I reckon this should be fun!" 

Harry raises an eyebrow (a skill he may or may not have learned while observing Louis as he watches Project Runway) and looks pointedly out of the window. 

"Oh, please. I don't mind getting a little wet," Louis scoffs. 

Just then, the wind howls outside, and Harry observes what he thinks might be an entire uprooted flower bush float by the house. "I'm not taking care of you when you're sick," he says, supporting himself on Louis's thigh as he leans to the other side of him to grab butter. He doesn't quite realise his position until he's standing up again, the heat of Louis's skin still burning in the palm of his hand. 

"Please," Louis huffs. "'M not going to get sick. Werewolf immunity. And I bet Niall's dad lent him some sort of top secret technology giant supersonic umbrella that will create a force field around us and protect us from the rain." 

Harry says nothing. He spreads mayo on a slice of bread, folds a circle of salami in half, and resolutely refuses to indulge Louis's incredibly weird sense of humour. He grins a little anyway. 

As it turns out, Niall doesn't have a giant supersonic umbrella. They do rustle up some regular ones, though, and Zayn becomes the star of the entourage when he shows up downstairs in a powder blue raincoat. Harry gives everyone good advice – namely, to take wellies – and nobody listens, but they do sniff appreciatively at the food. Turns out the house actually did contain a picnic basket as well, and old-fashioned, heavy thing with a fabric lining, and Harry feels like a housewife in the best way when he carries it to the car.

Finally, when everything is safely in the boot and the heating is cranked up (they're taking the Range Rover again, and Harry thinks he really, really needs to meet Bobby Horan and thank him one of these days), they set out on their adventure. Niall's driving is an experience in and of itself, the things he yells at dangerous drivers are fascinating, and Harry had been lucky (stealthy) enough to get seated in the back with Louis, Zayn and Loki. In addition to the delicious press of his and Louis's legs together, the atmosphere in the car is what actually has Harry excited. None of them really leave the house that much, and now, even when it's raining cats and dogs and this was very probably a terrible idea, they're all eager to see where Niall takes them. 

In an overwhelmingly predictable turn of events, they end up in Hyde Park. Harry can't imagine a more cliché place. He thinks it's perfect. 

"Wow," Louis says when he clambers out of the car, immediately trembling in his short-sleeved shirt. "I didn't think people actually went here for something other that artsy inspiration and public sex." 

"Shut it," Niall orders, unloading their stuff. 

"I have a question, though," Zayn pipes up, pulling his plastic hood over his head. He looks like he stepped out of a cheap Russian Teletubbies ripoff. 

Niall sighs long-sufferingly. "Yes, Zayn."  

"Where are we going to set down the blanket? Seeing as, you know, the entirety of the fucking ground is wet."

"Aren't there tables?" Liam frowns. 

"Oh Li," Louis says and sighs. Harry is standing close enough to watch the goosebumps rise on his arms the longer they stay still. 

"I'm a professional, mate," Niall proclaims. "I have a tarp. And we could use the thing you're wearing in case of emergency."

Zayn puts an affronted hand on his heart and refuses to go help him. Harry pokes Louis in the arm.

"Hey, Lou," Louis looks up at him questioningly. "Where's your jacket?" 

He shrugs. "I left it. Didn't think it'd be that cold." 

Harry spares a thought for poor, poor Louis, who thinks mid-March afternoons in the South of England are anything other than uncomfortably humid and fucking freezing. 

"D'you want mine?" 

Next to Harry, Zayn very visibly rolls his eyes. Harry kicks him in the shin. When he goes back to Louis, he's looking up at Harry with a bit of wonder and a bit of mischief in his eyes, but really, most of his face is taken up by his blinding smile. 

"How sweet of you, Haz. Won't you be cold?" 

Harry shakes his head. "Nah, I'm hot already. I've got a jumper underneath, unlike _someone_." 

Louis grins and makes grabby hands, looking remarkably like a toddler. Harry slips out of the jacket with ease, refusing to hand it over, and instead comes to stand behind Louis and holds it out for him until he understands and slips his arms in the sleeves.

 "Oh, you are hot," Louis says, full of wonder, snuggling into Harry's leftover body heat, but Harry can practically hear the smirk underneath.

When he steps back to admire his handiwork, he very nearly has to catch himself on Zayn and his terrible raincoat. Louis looks—well. Louis looks incredible regardless of whether he's spend an hour getting ready or just rolled out of bed, but this is taking it to a whole new level. The blue denim complements his eyes perfectly and the woollen lining makes him look like the human incarnation of a warm cuddle. It's also slightly big on him, the sleeves falling just far enough to cover his hands, and this might very much be a _thing_ for Harry too, seeing Louis in his clothes, looking all tiny and wonderful and encased in Harry's scent. He has thoughts. About Louis possibly wearing the jacket indoors. In his bedroom, to be precise. With possibly no other articles of clothing anywhere on his body. 

When he resurfaces, resisting the urge to palm himself through his jeans, he realises he's been staring. Louis is smirking at him, like he knows exactly what he's done, and the other three are looking on with looks varying from fond exasperation (Liam) to absolute glee (Niall). 

As one would expect on a day like this one, the park is mostly deserted. There are a few half-naked people rolling around in the wet grass, because it’s apparently a great feeling, and a few kids are playing chase along the Serpentine, but it's nothing compared to the times Harry's been here before. He quite likes it this way.

Niall suddenly stops. "Here!" he announces happily, throwing out his arms and spinning in a circle on a completely ordinary patch of grass. Nobody argues with him, and they make quick work of folding out the tarp and the blanket. In a suspicious bout of good fortune, the rain lets off into a light drizzle and by the time they're sitting down haphazardly, Harry's hair is not even dripping anymore. 

As it turns out, carrying a wicker picnic basket out in the rain is not the brightest idea they've ever had. Everything inside is salvageable, but Harry is not a fan of damp sandwiches. 

"Alright lads, let's toast," Niall says a little too loudly after they've set out their plates in front of them. He starts pulling beers out of the plastic bag that, thus far, had been unassumingly lying by his side. Harry accepts the can gratefully. 

"Why are we toasting?" Louis asks curiously. 

"Because," Niall answers. "It's a thing. Friends do it. Today is a great day to celebrate being friends." He sounds upbeat and happy, the way he usually is, but Harry can't help the suspicious glance he exchanges with Louis.

"Okay," Liam says slowly. 

"This wouldn't possibly have to do with me and Liam and Harry, would it?" Zayn asks, low and slow and suspiciously gentle. 

Niall looks at him with betrayed eyes. "No." 

And _oh_ , Harry thinks, _of course_. "Ni…"

"I don't wanna hear it," Niall glares. "We're gonna toast and have a fucking picnic, and the three of you are going to get your shit together."

Harry gulps. "How do we do that, exactly?" Absentmindedly, he feels Louis's hand snake up the back of his neck and start rubbing small, comforting circles in his hair. Harry loves him. 

"I don't know. Apologise again. Hug it out. Talk, like _normal fucking people_."

Zayn sighs deeply and reaches out towards Niall, running a hand through his hair and squeezing his shoulder. Harry loves watching Zayn when he does that, comforts the people he loves the best way he knows. He's been on the receiving end of those touches more times than he can count.

Next to Harry, Liam sighs deeply and turns to him. "Look, Harry. I'm sorry—"

"Wait, no. What? No, I'm—"

"No, really, we shouldn't have—"

"I was a complete shit—"

"But that's understandable, you didn't—"

"Liam—"

"Stop it," Zayn interjects. Their mouths immediately snap shut, and Zayn turns his eyes to Harry. It's strangely like looking into a glass of whiskey. 

"Harry, we're sorry," he holds up a hand when he sees Harry about to interrupt him. "You've apologised, and you've explained yourself, and when it was good enough for Louis and Niall, it should've been good enough for us, too. We trust their judgement. We trust _you_." Liam nods without protest.

Harry will absolutely deny getting a little choked up. It's only Louis's hand, running over his scalp and neck and back and shoulders aimless and effortless, like that's where it belongs, that keeps him relaxed and helps him breathe. 

"Thank you," he stresses, looking straight at Zayn. "And thank you, too," he smiles at Liam. "But you have nothing to be sorry for. You're protective, and that's a good thing. Don't let me get off easy just because it's me."

Next to him, Louis sniggers loud enough for everyone to hear, and the strange atmosphere is broken, just like that. 

"And I—" Harry clears his throat, unwilling to let it go just yet. "I know that you've been trying to make me feel welcome, even if you didn't particularly want to see my face every single day, so. Thanks." 

Zayn grins, the joyous, impish little smile that completely transforms his face. "Did the birthday banner give us away? And the new welcome mat?” 

Harry smiles back, feeling light. "A little." 

"It's all good, Harry," Liam grins, too. "But if you ever pull anything like that again, do remember that I live in a forest and I own a shovel." 

"Noted," Harry says. "Can we still hug it out, though?" he asks, and within seconds, Liam and Zayn are piled on top of him, smelling of wet dog and cheap plastic. Louis and Niall join in for good measure and Harry, squished on the very bottom, is in heaven. He loves hugging and he absolutely adores puppy piles - sue him.

Loki, as the only actual puppy around, takes a break from chewing on a piece of tomato and barks enthusiastically to show his approval.

After that's settled, they eat, and drink, and Harry is pleased to realise he'd actually been hungry. He's showered with praise from all sides, though his eyes, more often than not, stray to Louis and observe the very particular way in which he's going about enjoying his tuna sandwich (that is to say, with a lot of moaning that seems entirely unnecessary. Harry loves food as much as the next guy, but. It's a bit much). 

Finally, they lie down in various positions, staring at the slowly clearing sky and, as Niall had put it, digesting. Harry sips on his beer and pretends the sun is out, and he feels quite blindingly happy. 

"I brought a frisbee," Niall says feebly after twenty or so minutes, followed by a yawn. Loki, who’s slumbering on his chest, wakes with a start and rolls off. His tiny puppy eyes seem to be glaring - as much as a puppy can glare, anyway.

Liam, apparently, is a fan. "Oh, can we play?" he asks, sounding the way he does when he’s all bright-cheeked and excited. Harry would look at him to confirm, but he's too busy dozing with his head on Louis's chest and listening to his heartbeat. 

Niall gets up with a lot of huffing and puffing. Harry expects to be invited along, but the two of them squelch off in their wet trainers alone.

"Lou?" Harry says when silence settles again.

 "Hmm?" Louis hums, all high and breathy and gorgeous. 

"Are you asleep?" 

"Yes, Harry," the eye roll is practically audible, "I am."

"Okay," says Harry and settles back. He ponders having a nap, just until Niall and Liam come back, but it's the soothing beat of Louis's heart that doesn't let him fall asleep. He wants to be awake to listen to it. 

After a few minutes of him lying there in silence, Louis heaves a sigh and pokes Harry with the arm that's not holding him. 

"What did you want?" 

Harry snuffles, buries his nose deeper into the slightly damp fabric of his jacket (that is now on Louis, therefore technically Louis's jacket, and Harry is honestly considering giving it to him anyway because he looks criminal in it), and doesn't answer. 

"Harryyyy," Louis pokes him again. 

"'S nothing, Lou," he mumbles. And it really is, he supposes – he hadn't wanted anything specific, just…to hear Louis's voice.

With a rumble that reverberates all around the inside of Harry's skull, Louis chuckles. This close, he hears the sounds Louis makes before they even leave his mouth. It feels intimate.

"Come on, Haz," he says, running a hand through Harry's hair. "Let's go for a walk." He leans up on his elbows, and Harry's head slips lower. He registers the flexing of muscle underneath his cheek, and suddenly he's very reluctant to go anywhere. 

"Hey," Louis goes on, butting Harry's head with his own gently. Harry, as always, behaves like a ridiculous fool who can't refuse Louis anything. 

"Alright," he mumbles, sitting up slowly and stretching. Louis stands up next to him, brushing off his trousers, and extends a hand for Harry to take.

"Where are we going?" he asks. Not that it matters – he'd probably follow Louis anywhere; to Heaven, to Hell, to the bedroom, down the aisle. 

"It's a secret," Louis whispers and digs around the bottom of the basket. The noise he makes is horrible, and Harry looks worriedly at Zayn and Loki, who are sleeping curled up next to each other, but they seem to be out cold. A few yards away, Niall and Liam are running around and yelling at each other.

"Okay," Louis pops up back at Harry's side, immediately taking his hand. In the other, he's holding a bag of what looks like frozen peas.

"Come on," he says before Harry can question his sanity, and Harry follows without a word.

As they walk down more and more twisted little paths, Harry starts to realise just how big the park is. The hedges and trees and brilliant green grass seem to stretch all the way to the horizon, beyond the looming silhouettes of buildings and sounds of city life. It feels like he's anonymous here, somehow; like nobody could possibly know or care who he is, walking across wet grass hand in hand with a beautiful boy, in a place as magnificent as this. 

"Will you tell me now?" Harry asks when they've been walking for a few minutes. Louis doesn't speak, and squeezes Harry's hand in response instead.

Finally, they seem to have reached their destination. Louis slows down as they walk through a line of trees into an open space Harry can't quite see yet, and turns to Harry with an excited smile. "Here we are, Harold," he grins, holds tight to Harry's hand, and pulls them both forward in a jog. 

In front of them, glistening even under the cloudy sky, is a small, green-blue lake. A pond would be a more accurate name, maybe, but Harry thinks it sounds less romantic. 

There's nobody there, as far as he can tell, and it doesn't look like a frequented spot, either. There is a single bench placed right by the bank, full of cracks and overrun by greenery, but other than that, it looks like nature’s sanctuary, in a way, like something that hasn't been touched by a human hand yet. It's nothing special, but Harry finds it gorgeous. 

"Wow," he says as he looks around and the towering trees surrounding them. "How do you know about this place?" 

"I've been here a few times," Louis smiles, secretive. His hand is still in Harry's, clammy and sweaty and probably uncomfortable for him, but Harry is not letting go until he absolutely has to. 

"Dates?" Harry raises an eyebrow, and pretends the answer doesn't actually interest him at all. 

"Oh, shut up," Louis pokes him in the ribs. "No. It's nice when you need a quiet place to think, that's all," his voice grows softer. He's obviously remembering something with a small, fond smile on his face, and Harry doesn't even much care what it is; what's important is that it makes Louis look like _that_.

"Let's go closer," he nudges Harry, gentle. 

Closer, as it turns out, is right up to the very edge of the bank, to the point where they're giggling and pawing at each other's clothes trying not to fall in. They sit down carefully, despite the moisture that immediately soaks their jeans. Louis leans into Harry's personal space a little more than strictly necessary, points out a small cluster of snowdrops and a strangely shaped mushroom that's growing on one of the bench legs. 

"What's the peas for?" Harry asks suddenly, remembering the plastic package that's still rustling somewhere inside Louis's (Harry's) jacket. 

"Oh," Louis laughs, and it sounds a little self-deprecating. His cheeks colour the slightest bit. "Um." 

Slowly, he takes out the bag and rips it open. The peas inside look thawed and mushy, but Louis doesn't seem to mind as he takes a handful and throws it into the water. The surface ripples a little. 

"What—" Harry starts, but the words die in his mouth when he sees. 

From underneath a muddy, grassy overhang, a duck is poking out its head. It looks like every other duck Harry has ever seen, brown with a bright beak and beady eyes, but somehow, just because it had been hidden and now coaxed out, and because it had been Louis who did it, the bird seems strangely exciting. Slowly, it paddles out onto the water, gliding gracefully. When it's so close Harry could almost touch its slick-looking feathers, it starts chasing the peas happily. 

Harry watches it splashing around and quacking with a sense of wonder. Soon, a drake joins it, its green head a brilliant splash of colour in the murky water. 

"Oh," Harry breathes, "please tell me they've got ducklings." 

Louis laughs. He offers the bag to Harry, and Harry gets his own handful of peas to throw. "Sorry, mate. Think it might be too early in the year."  

"But it's almost spring!"

"Almost," Louis smiles. "Besides, I'm not sure these two are parent material. They've been here all alone since before I can remember." 

Harry throws his peas and watches the colourful flurry of wings as the ducks race to catch the ones that stay bobbing on the surface. 

"Do they mate for life?" he asks. 

"'M not a bird expert, Haz," Louis says fondly. 

"That would be an ornithologist," Harry interjects cheekily, dodging the pea Louis attempts to throw into his ear. 

"Yes, Harold, thank you. _As I was saying_ ," he grins, "I'm not a bird expert, but I don’t believe they do. The drakes are actually quite violent, I think?" 

Harry frowns, looking at the shimmering water painting light on the drake's feathers. They look like treasure, or an expensive fabric, shimmering and beautiful and deceitful, perhaps. "How?" 

"Not sure. I think they, like, chase the ducks a lot? And they hurt them to weaken them so they can, you know, hump." 

Harry chokes on air. " _Hump_?"

"Shut up," Louis says, looking out over the lake instead of at Harry, but the corner of his mouth is curled up just so. Harry smiles back involuntarily.

"That's sad, though," he says. He plucks a pea from the bag and throws it in his mouth, then gives another handful to the ducks. Next to him, Louis stretches out, leaning back on his hands. It's almost imperceptible, but Harry thinks he can feel him move a little closer. There's no more than an inch of space separating them now.

"What is?" 

"What you just told me," Harry says. "That they're—you know, like that. Doesn't seem natural." 

Louis huffs a little, just a delicate puff of air that turns white and disappears into the air around them. "It's just the way they are. This is what every duck before them has done, they don't know any better."

Harry hums softly in agreement, but when he looks back at the birds, he knows the way he looks at them has changed. Mum used to tell him all these stories, when he was little and begging to go to the park and feed the duckies – about duck boys that were colourful and flashy and duck girls that were earthy and plain, and how none of it mattered when they loved each other. About the ducklings growing up under the loving wings of their parents, and how they'd leave to have a family of their own, but they'd always visit; about the cycle of life. He thinks he shouldn't have asked, now. He doesn't like shattering the few illusions he has left from his childhood. 

"Why don't you feed them bread?" he asks as he picks another pea out of the bag. 

"It's not good for them," Louis says. "It's basically duck junk food. Though you shouldn't feed them at all, but it's, you know," he waves a hand in front of him, searching for the right words. "Nostalgic."  

"Did you go a lot when you were little?"

"Yeah," Louis says. The smile slowly spreads to his eyes, igniting sparks. "I used to, with my sisters." 

Harry has to hold back a wince. He's torn whenever it seems like he might accidentally bring up Louis's family; on one hand, Louis obviously loves them, and he's full of good memories, but on the other, Harry has seen the pain in him, and it's not something he'd want Louis to remember. 

It's the good memories now, he can see it on Louis's face – his softened features and gentle eyes as he looks out over the water to a time long past. Harry indulges the permanent itch underneath his skin and lays his hand over Louis's where it's spread palm down on the ground. Louis blinks in surprise, but when he turns to Harry and smiles, the soft look in his eyes stays.

They don't say anything, then, and watch the ducks flap their wings and shake their heads. A slight wind picks up, bending the long blades of grass along the bank and ruffling Harry's hair pleasantly. They're going to have to go back soon, Harry knows, but he can't bring himself to stand up. There's something peaceful yet exciting about this, sitting with Louis and feeding birds and the electricity that fizzles in the space between them. 

"Hey, Harry?" Louis asks, creasing the half-empty plastic bag nervously. His hands are shaking. 

"Yeah?" he says, gentle. He can't quite place Louis's tone, but he can tell when Louis is anxious or worried or uneasy or agitated, and right now, he's all of those things. Harry sits up straighter, blocks out every thought of ducks and his mum and the pond in the park in Holmes Chapel. Everything narrows down to Louis, and really, it's not too unfamiliar a feeling. 

"I…God, I'm shit at this," says Louis. He tears off a blade of grass now and starts shredding it. 

"Take your time," Harry tells him, as soothing as he knows how to be, and in the back of his mind, he thinks he knows what this is. He doesn't resist and doesn't try to guess out loud; if Louis brings something up himself, it's important to Harry to wait him out and let him speak. 

"Okay," Louis breathes out. "So. Listen. I should've brought this up sooner probably, but, uh…I'm not that great at this. You know, talking." 

Harry thinks Louis is great at talking; he's wonderful at giving advice and at telling jokes and at making everyone around him feel loved, amazing in how strongly he stands behind the things he says. He's incredible at making Harry feel special. 

He doesn't say any of that out loud. Instead, he nods for Louis to continue. 

"And I've been…I've been trying to think of something eloquent to say for the past two weeks, but I keep drawing a blank, and all this, it's—it's driving me crazy."

Harry strokes his fingers along the back of Louis's hand. He knows his touch conveys everything he wants to say.

"I mean, you said we would talk about it, right?" Louis says, and bites his lip when he looks at Harry. Harry's not yet used to seeing him so insecure and vulnerable about something, and it only makes him want to be more honest.

"I did," he says. "And I've been trying to figure out how to." 

Louis laughs shakily. "Well. At least we're in the same boat."

"Are you sure—"

"Yes, Harry," Louis interrupts. He sounds surer this time. "I want to be certain about things, one way or another." 

"Okay." 

Louis turns to him just slightly, shoes squeaking in the wet grass. He's got damp patches on the underside of his thighs and on his knees and all over the rest of his trousers, and a stray blade of grass has settled in his hair. He looks like a breathtaking woodland creature. 

“So. It’s been a while since I've told you – showed you – what happened to me, a long time ago now. I wish I could say it's actually in the past, but you know better than everyone that," he pauses and swallows tightly, "that it isn't. I carry it with me everywhere, and I always will. I'll never be the idiotic nineteen-year-old you saw in that memory again." 

Harry is afraid to breathe lest he disturb Louis's slow, deliberate words. _I don't want just him_ , he wants to say _, I don't even know him. Not like I know you_. _It's okay._

 __"But I—I've not been living, in the past few years. You don't even know, because you've never seen me like that, but I'm sure the lads told you. I was just—I was a shell. I've wasted so much time."

"You're here now," Harry says quietly, before he can hold himself back. "You got through all of it, and you've got so much to be proud of." 

Louis looks at him, silent, and Harry is immediately scared that he'd stopped him now, that Louis won't go and Harry will never get to know and they'll keep dancing around each other until it drives them mad. But. 

“Please let me be with you," Louis blurts, and then actually clamps a hand over his mouth. Harry's mind is on temporary leave, and he's just as frozen, speechless. 

"I mean—fuck. I had this whole _speech_ prepared, I was going to explain myself and make you see that I've changed and whatnot and you just go and…goddamnit, Harry." 

Harry blinks. "What did you mean by that?" 

"What?" 

“The—what you just said. What did you mean?" there's a horde of butterflies in his stomach, the actual, beautiful, innocent feeling he'd thought he was past, at nineteen. His hands shake a little, and he doesn't quite understand, but he thinks he's getting there, thinks _please let this be happening_. 

Louis looks at him for a long while, just looks, eyes liquid in his face. Slowly, he leans forward to take his weight off his arms, and tangles his newly freed hand with Harry's. When he speaks, he can't quite meet Harry's gaze.

"How is that not obvious? I mean, we've been—doing things for a while, and I felt so wrong because you didn't know such an important part of me, but I've always…I've always wanted it. I told you that first time I ran away. You make me so happy, Hazza."

Harry sniffles a little, does nothing to stop the tears he knows will be coming. He's proud to cry for this man. _You make me happy, too,_ he squeezes his fingers around Louis's, and gets a squeeze in response. 

"And after you saw, I just kept, I don't know, hoping against hope that you somehow wouldn't care. That you'd still kiss me and touch me and look at me like you couldn't believe I was real," he smiles sadly. "And you just…you were so _Harry_ about it. You held me when you watched the younger me spill blood, and you held me after, and I couldn't stop hoping, I _couldn't_." 

Harry feels cold with the realisation that Louis actually did expect him to yell or call him a monster or storm out of his life and never come back. He doesn't take it personally; it doesn't make him angry. It makes him overwhelmingly sad. 

"You said we'd talk about it, and then time went on and we just…never did? And I was waiting for you to make the first move, because you were the one who needed to process the whole thing, but I couldn't keep quiet anymore, you know? The space between us, it just…it broke my heart. I don't want to have to pull back when I feel like kissing you senseless." 

Harry breathes out. It's long and shaky, the one breath he'd held the whole time Louis was talking. His vision blurs, and he takes his time blinking the moisture out. 

"So," he clears his throat, “you want to be with me, but. You’re asking me to _let you_?” 

"Essentially," Louis says, picking at a fraying hem on his trousers. The hand Harry isn't holding is still shaking. "Because I want to be with you, more than anything, but. This is all up to you," he shrugs. He looks too small, like he's beaten down instead of just curled up.

"Lou," Harry says quietly and moves closer. "Lou, I—I wasn't expecting this."

Louis huffs humourlessly, "Sorry."

"No, it's. I don't know. I think that I…maybe may have been telling myself there needs to be a conversation when it's really not that complicated?" 

"What do you mean?" Louis asks, finally raising his head. His eyes are clear, but Harry can see the intimidation in them. 

"What did you need from me? Back in the forest, after we came out of your memory, what were you hoping for?" 

Louis blinks at him, all shaky and obviously tense. His hand in Harry's has stopped twitching, lying limply instead, and for now, Harry fights the urge to bring it to his mouth and press a kiss into Louis's palm just because he can. 

"I was…I wanted forgiveness most of all, I think, but that's not really yours to give," he says quietly. "I wanted you to stay, most of all. And I wanted you to acknowledge what I've done, but try and understand the circumstances. I'd been hoping you knew me well enough to tell how terrified I am of it, of ever doing it again, and that you'd just…be you. You're always so good to me," he smiles at Harry, almost imperceptible, but still there. His face is frighteningly pale, even in the warm light of the late afternoon. "And, yeah. I just. For you to stay, that's what I was hoping for." 

Harry reaches out his free hand, runs light fingertips over Louis's knee in a touch he hopes is at least a little comforting. "I did promise you I would, didn't I? I'm here, Lou. I'll be here for as long as you'll have me." 

Louis sniffles a little, and makes an aborted movement like he means to take Harry's other hand in his, too. Harry observes, with all the love in the world, that Louis is a bit of a mess; his hair is disheveled, hands trembling, and he's got a flush blooming slowly on his cheeks. He's still holding himself together far better than anybody Harry knows would in this situation. "You'll stay," he says slowly, a half-question, and Harry thinks he hears the other things he's trying to ask. _You're not afraid?_ and _Do you think I deserve forgiveness?_ and _Will you be here to stop me next time?_

 __"Yes," says Harry simply, answering everything at once. It should feel monumental, maybe, like he's making a huge commitment, but he thinks that's already happened a long time ago.

Louis watches him, and he's crying a little now, too, and he's the most astonishing creation on planet Earth in all the best ways. Harry looks at his sad eyes and droopy hair and chapped lips, and thinks _I want this forever_.

"Okay," Louis gulps, finally, and the smile he gives Harry is small and toothy and genuine. "Okay. Thank you." Harry squeezes his hand. "What about, uh…this?" he points to himself then Harry then back to himself. Harry is so, so endeared. 

"Well, you did say you wanted to kiss me a lot in the future," he grins. Louis blushes furiously, and Harry still doesn't cease to be fascinated by it. It's a heady feeling, knowing that he's the cause.

"I do," Louis says, and Harry's half expecting a crude comment, or an innuendo, but there's none. "But I don't have a whole lot of experience, and I want to do this right. So maybe we should, I don't know, go back to being best friends and start dating slowly, or something?" 

Harry can't help the giddiness that overtakes him at the word 'dating'. It slams into his chest like a little freight train of happiness, loaded with sunshine and kittens and Louis's smiles, and explodes all over him. "Could we possibly skip the friends part?" he asks, trying to keep a serious face. Louis's concern is very much real, and it would do Harry no good to dismiss him before they've even entered a relationship. 

Louis lightens up a little, then. "But I should get time too woo you and make you mine, oh graceful Harold."

Harry beams. His hand is sweating in Louis's, clammy and a little gross, and it's quite possibly the best thing ever. He feels an uncontrollable urge to laugh, just because he can, because he's happy, but he holds back. He finally takes Louis's second hand, too, pulling until they're mostly sitting opposite each other like kids on the playground.

He's unexpectedly serious when he speaks, and holds Louis's gaze. "I've been yours for a long time, Lou." 

Louis smiles the widest smile Harry has ever seen on his face, and a few more tears leak out of his eyes to get lost in the crinkles around them. A tremor runs through his entire body, Harry can feel it in their joined hands and touching knees, and Harry sure hopes that what he's seeing is happiness. 

"You're right," Louis says quietly, almost reverently, still grinning. "We should skip ahead." 

Harry doesn't think they need to say anything more, and when he pulls at Louis's hands to get him in his lap, he seems to agree. As he settles down comfortably with his legs on either side of Harry's, he keeps smiling, and he shines so brightly Harry would swear he can actually see the light he emits.

Louis's hands immediately slip underneath his jumper and come to rest on Harry's back, icy cold and exhilarating. 

"You're so warm," he murmurs in wonder, and Harry laughs, because he feels like it, because he can, because there's no heavy weight on his heart anymore. 

"Aren't you?" 

"You did give me your jacket," Louis says, grins. 

"I did," says Harry, following the line of Louis's shoulder in the pale denim, the way his neck is flanked protectively by soft wool. "And you look _so_ fit in it." 

Louis raises an eyebrow. Harry doesn't miss the impossibly fond twinkle in his eye as Louis leans down and kisses him, soft and slow and dirty. His tongue immediately slips into Harry's mouth, gentle and deep, and Harry gives back his best. The intensity of it has heat rising in his gut, a pleasant burn of desire that might just keep burning indefinitely, now that Harry doesn't have to hold himself back.

When they pull away, Louis's lips are spit-slick and shiny, red from where Harry bit down on them one time too many. Louis's pupils are blown and his hair is mussed up spectacularly from Harry's fingers. Harry imagines he doesn't look much better. 

"Wow," Louis comments, fisting his hand in the front of Harry's jumper and pulling him back in. It's faster this time, fuelled by the want they both feel, judging by their mixed scents. Being able to smell the two of them like that, different shades of lust blending into each other, only turns Harry on more, and he can't help the experimental roll of his hips. 

Above him, Louis gasps in surprise, then pulls away. There's a gleam in his eyes, the same one he gets whenever he's up to no good. "Now, now. We've only just started dating, haven't we?" 

Harry groans. "Louis, I swear to God—"

He's interrupted by another kiss, close-mouthed and chaste. Louis is giggling in little puffs of air against Harry's nose. "I'm joking, love. Just don't fancy getting off with you while we're sitting in crushed peas in the middle of Hyde Park."

If he's honest, all Harry really hears is 'getting off with you', and those words spoken in Louis's voice make him feel very pleasant things. Louis has been driving him crazy for weeks upon weeks, with his deliciously tight jeans and scratchy stubble and running around buck naked in the forest, and the thought of being allowed to get him out of his clothes and make him moan, well, it's. It's _very nice_.

"Why not?" he pouts, still, just to tease. "We're just a bit damp. And didn't you mention something about public sex when we got here?" 

"All in good time," Louis grins. "We can come back for that later. Right now, I want you home," he leans closer, cheek brushing Harry's as he touches his lips to Harry's ear. "In my bed." 

Harry wants to get up, throw Louis over his shoulder and sprint through all of London back to the house. He settles for biting his lip, hard, and revelling in the smug look on Louis's face when he pulls back. 

They kiss again, and again, and once more, all soft and sweet and feeling like reassurance. For the first time, there's no darkness looming on the horizon, no heavy hearts and unspoken words; it's just them, doing what they do best – falling into each other.


	3. Chapter 3

Ten minutes out of the city centre and heading for the outskirts, Zayn announces that he can't be in the car with them. To his misfortune, Niall refuses to stop. 

"Really, though," Liam joins in on the heated conversation, simultaneously turning to them and grabbing Niall's face to turn it back to the road. "It would be nice if you toned it down." 

Harry and Louis are sitting innocently in the back, pressed together just like before, with their hands clasped in their respective laps and absolutely not touching each other. Somehow, the other werewolves in the car still seem to have a problem.

Harry can smell the two of them too, of course – the lust is literally rolling off of them in waves, growing stronger, and it's driving him crazy. The more he wants, the more mental images he conjures up in his head, and the more turned on he is. It's a vicious circle, one he suspects Louis is currently caught in as well. 

"It's not that easy, Li," Harry protests, trying to save what's left of their respective dignities. "I don't tell you what you should be feeling." 

"That's because Liam has respect for his friends' noses," Zayn says venomously, pressed to the window tight enough he might manage to get out with pure force of will. 

"You should be happy for us," say Louis, frowning at everyone in turn. "Harry and I got our shit together. No more UST. No more complaining. Hooray." 

"I'd honestly take you complaining over this," Zayn says. "I can't _breathe_." 

With a cackle from the front, Niall rolls down his window. It's nice to see that at least someone's having fun, Harry thinks. 

"Wait," he says, turning to Louis. "You complained? About me?" 

"I wouldn't take offence," Liam says, ignoring the deadly glares Louis is shooting him in the rearview mirror. "He complained about your…what was it, Zayn? Unlawfully tight jeans?" 

Louis glares some more. Harry bursts out laughing. 

"I never said that," Louis growls. 

"Hmm," Liam looks contemplatively out of the front window. "Maybe I'm mixing it up. But I'm sure Harry has other things that are unlawfully tight." 

The silence that falls on them is stumping. Harry would swear that even the birds outside stop singing, and the top 40 Niall has playing on the radio fades into white noise. 

"Liam," Zayn chokes out, sounding like he's actually on his deathbed. "Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Liam."

"I—I don't—" Louis stutters. "Was that what I think it was?" 

"It was a very crude joke at my expense, Lou," Harry informs him dutifully and pats him on the shoulder. He's still trying not to laugh, and slowly losing the battle. 

"Wow," Louis says, and Niall loudly echoes the sentiment. "Liam Payne. Who would've thought." 

Just then, they get on the expressway, finally out of actual London and heading towards the house. Harry immediately thinks to Louis's bed, and the things he hopes will happen on it today and for many more days to come. 

Heh. Come. 

" _No_ , fuck," Zayn whines. "You're doing it again." He's got his jumper pulled up to cover his nose, cowering away from the two of them, and Harry does feel a little bit bad, he does. It's just that imagining himself on his knees in front of Louis is so much more important. 

When Niall parks and turns off the engine, all of them freeze. Harry slowly meets Niall's eyes in the rearview mirror, stares down Liam who's trying to sneakily look at him, then looks to Louis with a raised eyebrow. Their intent is, apparently, very clear, and if they got out now, he bets the others would suddenly remember they still have something to do in the city. 

A beat later, Harry is grabbing Louis by the wrist and running. They're breathless and giggly by the time they slam the front door shut. When they look out of the living room window they see, as predicted, the Range Rover pulling out of its spot and leaving again. Zayn is glaring at them from the back. 

Louis laughs harder, holding on to Harry's forearm. "I can't believe we just sexiled them," he squeaks ( _squeaks_ ), all adorable chortling noises. Harry nearly melts at how cute he is, and the only thing that's keeping him at least remotely tethered is the 'sex' in the word 'sexile'. Which is not an actual word, Harry thinks, but he doesn't much care, because. Sex.

Harry has successfully reverted back to fifteen-year-old him. 

He still laughs along with Louis, though, presses his nose to the freezing windowpane and leaves greasy fingerprints behind. They watch, catching their breath, until the car disappears from view. Once it's gone, so are their giggles, and the air is suddenly heavy with real intent. Harry thinks he might be sweating when he turns away from the window and looks right at Louis. 

"So," he says, slow. 

"So," Louis grins. "We have all this room to ourselves." 

"Whatever should we do with it?" Harry asks, grinning back, as he steps closer and rests his hands on Louis's hips. He pecks Louis's cheek and chin and jaw, revelling in Louis's little puffs of breath that break across Harry's cheekbone. Harry is actually _so embarrassing_. 

Louis must think so, too, but he can't quite get the soft look off his face when he pulls away, stands up straighter and tugs Harry down by his neck to kiss him proper. He doesn't hold back, parting Harry's lips and sucking on his tongue, and he seems to be a particular fan of teeth. When he starts nipping softly at Harry's bottom lip, catching it and releasing it again with a delicious, torturously slow tug, Harry actually thinks his knees might give out. 

He gives back everything he's got, easily getting back into the familiar rhythm of mouths moving together. It's not quite like anything Harry has ever experienced, kissing Louis – it's all new and exhilarating, like everything else that Louis makes him feel, and the goosebumps that run up and down Harry's arms make him want to burrow into Louis and stay there forever. He slides his tongue along Louis's easily, slick and raspy all at once, then draws back to suck on Louis's lip. He keeps diving back in, though, like Louis is giving him oxygen, not stealing it away right out of his lungs with everything he does. 

Louis nips Harry's bottom lip, running his hands over Harry's cheeks to tilt his head just right and logically, that shouldn't knock Harry's breath out with how hot it is, but, alas. He can't and doesn't want to stop the soft moan that bubbles up in his throat and breaks against Louis's teeth. He feels Louis grin when he connects their lips again, and Harry redoubles his efforts, intent on cracking Louis's cocky exterior. He leans into Louis with more force, keeping the kiss soft but firm, and bites down on Louis's lip experimentally. He moves his hands lower at the same time, fitting them over the ridiculous curve of Louis's arse and splaying his fingers. Finally, Louis whines into Harry's mouth, high and breathy, and winds his arms around Harry's neck to pull himself up. His muscles tense right underneath Harry's palms, and the unexpected motion of Louis's body along his makes him see stars. Harry can feel the heat build up in his gut, send sparks all the way to his wandering fingertips, and he squeezes, hard, in an attempt to get Louis closer, somehow. 

"Fuck," Louis hisses, and before Harry knows what's happening, Louis is pulling on Harry's neck and tugging his hair as he hoists himself up, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist tight like vices. Harry almost blacks out at the feeling, and he's rapidly assaulted with visions of Louis's thighs clamping around his head or his hips or all of him, and he wouldn't at all mind worshipping them forever, he thinks. He hitches Louis higher, holding his legs so tight he might've bruised them, if either of them bruised from something as simple as a touch. He feels his cock hardening in his pants, pressing against the zipper of his jeans and against the weight of Louis's body, and it's both uncomfortable and arousing. He can't wait to get rid of all his clothes.

"Fuck," Louis says again, right against Harry's ear, and gently bites on his earlobe. Harry pulls, tightens his arms around all of Louis and dives for his neck. They've not even done anything yet, but he suddenly feels a need, guttural and animalistic the way his wolf often feels, to make Louis his, have proof that Louis's skin has felt him even if he wakes up tomorrow and things have gone wrong again. He kisses and nibbles and sucks on the soft skin underneath his lips, moaning at the feeling of Louis's stubble on his skin, the way it scratches softly against the side of Harry's face. Above him, Louis is making the most beautiful sounds, and Harry is drowning in him, in the tight hold of Louis's legs on his waist and his _scent_ – fresh cologne and the park and hair product, but underneath it all, it's pure Louis; a little musky and a little heady and absolutely perfect. 

"Haz," Louis says, gasps, "Haz, bedroom." 

Harry pulls away for a second, releasing the skin of Louis's neck slowly. Most of the bruises are disappearing already, taking away Harry's mark. The bizarrely territorial wolf in him almost whines. 

"Yeah?" he asks, finally looking up. Louis is watching him with pupils blown wide and black, hair mussed and breath hitching, and Harry thinks he's never looked better. Harry simultaneously wants to ruin him and lay back and let Louis have his way. He supposes there's time for both, eventually. 

Louis smirks a little, but his eyes stay gentle. " _Yeah_ , Jesus. Wanna suck you off, come on," he rolls his hips into Harry's to emphasise his point, and Harry is lights out. Gone. 

He thinks he might growl, but he'll vehemently deny that later. He kisses Louis one more time, tight and bruising, and starts carrying him up the stairs as they are. Louis is clearly surprised, squeaking a little and holding on like he expects Harry to drop him at any second (which, to be fair, Harry might. He is very famous for his unfortunate track record with dumb accidents, after all). As he waddles them up the stairs, trying to kiss Louis's neck and navigate the halls at the same time, feeling Louis's warm breath in his hair, he becomes painfully aware of how difficult it is to walk with a raging hard on and a whole lot of boy hanging off of him, but he refuses to give either of it up. 

Finally, they make it to Louis's bedroom, but Harry doesn't bother opening the door. He presses – slams – Louis against it, a smidgen harder than he'd intended, but all Louis does is moan obscenely and throw his head back to thunk against the wood. Harry takes it as open invitation, trails his mouth over Louis's jaw and neck and collarbones, biting and soothing with his tongue. Louis's fingers weave into Harry's hair sharply, clenching into fists and pulling him up to Louis's eye-level. Harry's scalp stings from the pull, so good his knees shake with it. 

"I've come to the conclusion that you're not real," Louis huffs out in between sharp breaths, running his hands over Harry's face. Harry tries to playfully nip at his fingers. 

"Why's that?" he grins, kissing Louis before he can reply. It's so good, so hot and slick and wonderful inside Louis's mouth. Harry might want to live there. 

"You drive me—," he breaks off, moaning and holding Harry in place by his hair. "You drive me crazy, _fuck_."

"Not a bad thing," Harry breathes, quiet against Louis's mouth. He knocks their foreheads together gently, closing his eyes as they try to catch their breath in synch. 

"No," Louis agrees, flexing his legs to pull Harry closer. The burn in Harry's belly flares so rapidly he thinks he might be on fire. Louis's legs are made of sin, he's decided, just the right length, thick and curvy and so incredibly right wrapped all the way around Harry's waist. "'S a bit new, though." 

"Really?" Harry frowns, nuzzling the side of Louis's face, rolling his hips appreciatively, pinning Louis to the door tighter. He’d been told Louis has had relationships, short ones at least, and he can't imagine anybody in their right mind treating Louis like anything less than fucking treasure. 

"Yeah, Harry," Louis muffles a laugh into Harry's hair. "Nobody's ever…nobody's…" he shakes his head, pulling Harry's head back and kissing him deep and filthy. "I've never felt like this," he whispers. 

_Me too_ , Harry wants to say, _I understand_ , but he's not quite sure he still knows how to form words. His heart feels three sizes too large for his chest, beating fast and happy; he commits it to memory, this moment, Louis's words, and swears to himself right then and there that no matter what happens, this is what he'll always remember. This – Louis trusting him to hold him up, trusting him with his body and his mind and his soul. His heart. 

He kisses Louis, takes hold of his legs again, and shoves the door open. 

Now, Harry's been in Louis's room plenty of times over the months, and he'd always thought it was nice enough, but when he looks at it now, sees the bed covers all wrinkled and messed up like an invitation, it seems to him like the only place he could possibly be. 

As soon as Harry kicks the door closed, Louis lets go of him. Harry gently sets him down, watches in fascination as Louis paws at his shirt, running both his hands up Harry's torso. He freezes for a second, until Louis mutters 'off' and Harry rushes to oblige him. It's chilly in the room, and the air has goosebumps rising on his skin as soon as the shirt is off, Louis is pressed back against his front, kissing him and pulling at his hair. 

"You too," Harry pouts into into Louis's lips, tugging at the hem of his jumper. Louis giggles happily and pulls, gets out in a single move that somehow looks elegant. 

Harry's mouth literally waters at the sight of Louis's naked chest, because _wow_. Harry has seen him naked plenty of times before – it is a werewolf thing, after all – but it feels monumentally different now. He's allowed to touch, to trail his tongue over every single inch of skin, to taste the red hot flush on Louis's chest. 

"Stop staring and get over here," Louis says, then pulls on Harry's wrist as he walks backwards towards the bed. Harry lets himself be led without question, and when Louis turns him around and pushes him down, he falls happily, bouncing on the mattress. It gets him so hard he can barely think straight, seeing Louis loom above him with a gleam in his eye and a grin on his face. 

"Lou," he moans, and plays it up a little, just because he can. "I believe you said something about blowjobs, yeah?" 

And Louis is on him in a split second, hovering over Harry. He looks wild with his hair sticking up every which way, and Harry is just really excited to be on a bed with him. 

"I believe I did," Louis purrs, trailing a single finger from Harry's collarbone all the way down to the button of his jeans. He digs in a little, and his sharp nail leaves behind a pleasant sting, a warmth that spreads all the way through Harry. 

Before Harry can attempt more cheesy flirting, Louis latches on to his nipple and _sucks_. Harry's cock strains against his jeans, definitely painful now, and he rolls his hips, desperately trying to find friction. Louis's hands snake down his sides and take hold of his hips, pressing him down util he can barely move, and oh, Louis is _evil_. He grins around the skin he's sucking on, just beneath Harry's collarbone and Harry can't do anything except bury his hands in Louis's hair and go along for the ride. Louis's face slowly moving down Harry's torso is an exquisite blend of sensations – his scratchy stubble, velvety soft lips, sharp teeth and slick tongue, and his tousled fringe that drags down Harry's skin right behind, a fleeting, soothing silky touch. He moans obscenely loud, feeling a tense vibration in his chest, the same way he feels when his wolf is about to growl. He absolutely refuses to make werewolf sounds in bed, and he turns to hide his face in a pillow, but one of Louis's hands is immediately on his jaw.

"'M down here," he says, lips moving against Harry's skin, and Harry just. Doesn't care. 

He loses it a little, maybe, watching Louis getting closer and closer to where he so desperately wants him, and he's letting out little whines and growls and moans. He barely believes himself, doesn't understand how everything Louis does can feel this good. He hasn't even touched Harry's cock yet, and Harry's still more turned on that he ever remembers being. 

Finally, _finally_ Louis reaches Harry's horribly constricting jeans. As soon as his hands leave Harry's hips, Harry thrusts up, thinking maybe Louis will get the idea, but all he gets in response is a smirk. And. Fine, Harry thinks. Alright. 

"Fuck, Louis. _Please_ ," he begs with absolutely no shame. "Come on." 

"Please what?" Louis asks, even as he's unbuttoning Harry's jeans and sliding the zipper down at a torturously low speed. 

"Please suck my cock," Harry says, hitting Louis lightly on the head with all the strength he can muster, which is not much. All his blood and energy and conscious thought is rapidly moving south, skin tingling, and the muscles in his legs are trembling already. 

Louis smiles this time, genuine and soft, and makes quick work of Harry's jeans, tugging them off expertly. He runs his hands along Harry's legs, bending them a little at the knee, and leans down to mouth at Harry's inner thighs. He's so _close_ , and all Harry can hear is his own blood pounding in his head. 

"Lou," he breathes when Louis pulls down his pants quickly, nails dragging along Harry's legs, and then Harry is finally, blissfully naked, and rock hard where his cock settles against his stomach. He can't see Louis's face, and he doesn't get to, because Louis ducks down and takes the head of Harry's cock in his mouth. 

Now, Harry's gotten a blowjob some four times in his life, if he counts the failed attempts. He'd always thought it was sort of sloppy and weird and full of spit, and not – not like _this_. He definitely doesn't recall the heat that spreads throughout his body almost immediately, prickles as it coats his limbs and leaves him twitchy and restless and feeling like he's too big for his own skin. Louis is swirling his tongue around lightly, sucking all the while, and all Harry can see of him is his fringe and eyelashes, but it's still the hottest fucking thing. 

Harry focuses very, very hard on holding himself back instead of snapping his hips like he really wants to, curls his fingers tightly in the bedsheets. Louis's hands are moving over his thighs, petting and scratching gently, soothing the burn and tremble Harry feels there. He moves lower slowly, tongue flat and hot on the underside of Harry's cock, lips tight. He bobs up, laps at the slit, and goes down again, throat working as he tries to take more of Harry in. There's a shiny line of spit connecting his lips to the head when he pulls off completely, smearing the slickness along Harry's entire length, and Harry is mesmerised by it. Louis's lips are red and puffy and full, and it's because of him, and God, all his coherent thought is gone. Harry feels his muscles draw tighter with every leisurely stroke of Louis's hand, back arching as he follows the pleasure. 

Louis bends back down, suddenly, takes Harry in so deep Harry's toes curl, and he moans his appreciation a thousand times over. He can feel the veins in his cock pulse against the incredibly tight walls of Louis's throat, hears that same blood thrum and sing as it rushes through him. Louis moves slowly at first, bobbing up and down, tongue moving lazily from side to side, but he speeds up in sync with the frequency of Harry's moans, drawing tight _ah_ s that feel like they're ripping his lungs apart. Harry feels beads of sweat slide down his temples and pool at his lower back, can't think at all when his fingers pull and twist Louis's hair and his orgasm builds up in his stomach until it's buzzing underneath ever single inch of his skin. 

"Lou," he tries to say, but it comes out a garbled mess. He tugs on Louis's hair in warning, but all that does is make Louis suck harder, cheeks hollowing as he comes all the way down, nose nestled in Harry's pubes. For the first time since he's started, he looks up, long eyelashes giving way to hypnotising blue. Harry catches his gaze, sees the fire burning in it, and the picture of Louis between his legs, making Harry feel like this, is what tips him over the edge. 

He closes his eyes tightly when he comes, drawn taut as he spills down Louis's throat. His thighs are trembling helplessly, skin sweaty and burning, and he clenches his legs around Louis's head unconsciously. He's breathing in large gasps, taking in air through his mouth, and he feels his cock twitching, still warm and wet inside Louis's mouth. Lights explode in the darkness behind his eyelids and every single sound fades out until all he can hear is his own heartbeat, almost painfully fast. 

It takes several long, _long_ seconds for Harry to come back to himself. He relaxes his legs immediately, shooting Louis an apologetic look, but he finds him wiping come off his chin with a satisfied smile on his face, a sparkle in his eyes that's amusement and fondness and pride all in one. Harry feels like he's been taken apart and put back together rather sloppily, wobbly and warm and emotional, and he doesn't take no for an answer when he pulls Louis back up by the hair, revelling in the slide of their skin against each other. They're both hot and flushed and sweaty, and it's the most delicious thing in the world. Harry kisses Louis deep, tasting himself in the back of Louis's mouth, and moves his hands down to where he can feel Louis's cock straining against his own thigh. There's a wet spot on the front of Louis's pants, and Louis shakes when Harry palms him. Harry can feel his breath hitch where Louis's mouth is pressed against his still, and he doesn't bother with niceties. He squeezes Louis's arse with one hand, smearing his precome around with the other, sliding a loose fist experimentally down Louis's entire length. Louis moans high and hot, bites down on Harry's lip hard enough to pierce it, and the flash of pain only spurs Harry forward. 

"F-fuck," Louis breathes, tangling his hands in Harry's hair and tugging desperately, hips rocking right into Harry's hand, "Fuck, Haz."

There'll be time for that later, Harry thinks, preferably very soon, but right now, he wants to see Louis come apart. He runs his thumb over Louis's head once, twice, three times, gently rolling his balls between the fingers of his other hand, and he feels the exact moment Louis loses control. He tenses, keening a half-human sound right into Harry's ear, hips snapping one last time as he comes all over Harry's stomach. His arms give out and he slumps with his head buried in Harry's neck, gasping emptily and mouthing at the sensitive skin there. Harry strokes a few more times, gently letting Louis's cock rest between them as he wraps both his arms around the other boy. 

They lie there and breathe for what feels like hours, perfectly content to share body heat and stick to each other's skin. Harry almost thinks Louis has fallen asleep until he grunts lazily and runs a hand over the entirety of Harry's face. 

"Clean me up," he murmurs grumpily, and Harry hears the smile in his voice. He does obediently untangle them and get up, though. He feels Louis's eyes on him as he stretches. When he turns his head, Louis is looking up at him with soft eyes that look almost liquid in the evening light, the expression on his face unlike anything Harry has seen before. He's smiling, a small, private smile that makes him look young and gentle. He looks at Harry like he's the one who put the sun in the sky, and Harry has to lean down and kiss him before he leaves for the bathroom. 

He spends a few minutes there looking for a flannel and wetting it with warm water, looking at himself in the mirror all the while. His pupils are still blown, his eyes almost black, and his hair is standing up in all possible directions. There's a bright red flush high on his cheeks, and he's got a string of dark bruises peppered across his collarbones, healing slowly. He looks like the picture of debauchery, and honestly, knowing it was Louis who made him look like this has Harry feeling warm head to toe. 

He pads back to the bedroom slowly and finds Louis in the exact same position as he left him, curled up on his side and grinning at Harry when he comes back in, slumps down on the bed and pets Louis's side until he uncurls a little. He cleans him off quickly and gently, rubbing the wet cloth over Louis's tan skin and taking him in, now that he's allowed to. They lie down together after, not bothering with clothes, and Harry pulls a blanket over them. 

He feels a little like he's been in the sun for too long and melted; boneless, sprawled all over the bed and still tingling pleasantly, and all he wants is to stay right here in this bed, with Louis. 

Louis seems to feel the same as he pushes Harry flat on his back and curls over him, head on Harry's chest and their legs tangled. It soothes Harry in every way possible, having Louis right here and so close, breathing into his neck. 

"How the fuck do you give a handjob like that," Louis puffs after they've been silent for a while. Harry grins. 

"I could ask you the same." 

"Hmm," Louis traces invisible patterns on Harry's chest with his hand, fingers scratching through the near nonexistent hair there.

"No, seriously," Harry says, "you're amazing." 

Louis buries his face in Harry's neck, laughing. "Shut up, Haz," he says in a small voice, soft with emotion, and Harry has to press a kiss into his hair. They listen to the monotone tick-tick-tick of the clock on Louis's bedroom wall, and Harry watches the dark of the night creep in slowly through the blinds. Louis is heavy and warm in his arms, smelling like sweat and himself and Harry, and it's wonderful. He yawns every few minutes, squirming around to get comfortable, and Harry can tell exactly when he starts dozing off.

"I wanted to go again," he mumbles good-naturedly. He actually loves the thought of them sleeping together like this, all tangled and naked and drenched in each other. 

Louis raises his head a props his chin on Harry's chest, blinking blearily. His eyes are shiny and clear. "We've got time, love," he says, and smiles, brilliant enough to light up the room. Harry thinks he maybe meant for it to come out teasing. 

"Yeah," Harry says, running a finger down the slope of Louis's nose. "I suppose we do." 

Louis sleeps then, and Harry stays awake for a while longer, holding him. He hears the boys come in, squabbling over something or other and running around. It's comforting, the pound of their feet on the floors and the pipes creaking inside the walls when they run the water. It makes Harry feel like everything is right with the world.

He spares one last look for the boy in his arms and lets himself drift off, feeling light.

*

If Harry thinks life will stop being a rollercoaster after that, well, he thinks he's allowed. As has now become customary in Harry’s life, it doesn't mean he's right.

Spring finally attacks the rainy streets of England in full force, all brilliant steely grey skies and uncomfortable drizzle. Harry hasn't felt dry in days, and when Niall suggests they go have a _late night adventure_ in the forest, it's the last thing he feels like doing.

Naturally, four hours later he's in the hall, pulling on wellies and checking everybody's torches. Zayn and Liam are tired and grumbling and Louis is leaning on Harry's shoulder, drifitng off to sleep every few minutes. 

"I'm so excited," Niall whispers, poking Liam in the ribs even though he obviously doesn't share the sentiment. "Let's go." 

They trudge out of the door like a row of ducklings, Niall's bright blond head leading the way. The forest is frighteningly dark around them, the sky an inky blue here away from the city lights, trees emerging from the dark like ghosts. Harry walks carefully and strains his ears to listen in beyond the eerie silence around them – he hears grass and leaves whispering in the occasional breeze, and somewhere in the distance, an owl is hooting.

"Why are we doing this again?" Louis asks. He's holding Harry's hand as they stumble over tree roots in the dark, and he still smells like sleep, warm and soft. 

"Adventure!" Niall crows from the front, throwing his arms up. Zayn actually growls. "Alright, fine, my dad asked me to check something out, and I'm doing you all a favour by taking you on a walk. Now heel and shut up." 

Harry chuckles under his breath, always on the lookout as the scenery around them changes. Whenever he walks here, every time he's certain he'd sniffed his way through every inch of the forest, he finds a new bend in the path, a rock formation he hadn't seen before – like the nature is fluid around him, ever changing, and once the canopy of leaves closes over his head, there's no going back.

"You mean you're scared to go alone," Louis taunts as they start going uphill, shoes sinking into the wet, soft dirt. Despite his words, he's pulling Harry to the front, closing a protective rank just behind Niall as he leads them fearlessly to places Harry has never been. 

"'M not," Niall scoffs. "Don't wanna get bored." 

Harry looks over his shoulder at Liam, who's pulling an exceptionally reluctant Zayn by the ear. "Are you having fun then?" 

"Loads," Niall confirms, puffing as the ascent gets steeper. The hilltop is still a long way in front of them, out of the reach of Niall's torch. Harry's breath is turning to fog and whipping back into his face wet and uncomfortable, but he does have to admit that being here, quiet under the cover of darkness, has him feeling adventurous. A boyish feeling of excitement bubbles in his chest, a giddiness that comes both from the slowly approaching horizon and Louis's body warm close to his. 

"So what is this thing you're supposed to be checking out?" Louis asks, voice deliberately light. 

Niall shrugs. "A couple dead deer." 

"We're in a forest." 

"We're in a werewolf forest, Louis. You know, a forest that used to be full of werewolves? We monitor suspicious activity." 

"You do?" Harry asks, surprised. 

"Course," Niall scoffs. "It's our job."

"That's so cool," Harry says honestly, and it really, really is. He can't help being slightly jealous that Niall gets to dress up in ninja clothes and shoot a bow and do spy stuff. 

"Not really," Louis says, grinning, "Trust me, Harold, we're way cooler." 

Just then, Zayn and Liam catch up with them, bent forward on the steep slope. Harry's beginning to lose his footing when they finally stop, swaying into each other in the sharp wind that catches them. Harry's not sure what he'd been expecting to find over the hill, but the view is disappointingly similar to what they'd just left behind. He's never been here, of that much he's certain – the air smells fresh and clean like a mountain spring, and the wind carries sounds Harry isn't used to hearing. The trees are closed in a little tighter, thicker, with branches weighed down by more leaves.

"See anything?" Niall asks quietly, torchlight dancing over tall shapes and shadows in the distance. The forest floor is a mess of fresh grass and old leaves, unmoving, and Harry's werewolf sight doesn't reveal anything out of the ordinary. When he raises his head and lets the wind whip across his face, breathing in deeply, there's an underlying scent to the air, something sickly sweet and pungent – a carcass. Harry goes to shift and follow the trail before he loses it, but Louis, as if sensing his intentions, puts a gentle hand on his elbow. Harry turns his head to argue.

"Wait," Zayn says suddenly. "There's something over there, I think." They all squint in the direction he's pointing, and Harry thinks he does see something – a vague shape, round and grey with the lack of light. He'd thought it was a boulder. 

Niall smiles at Zayn and shrugs. "Worth a try." 

They quiet down instinctively, breaths baited as they start moving, a haphazard line of shaky legs and trembling hands. Harry feels like he's on a spy mission. When they round the oak tree that had been blocking their way, he feels like he's going to throw up instead. 

" _Okay_ ," Louis says slowly, stepping back. He's still connected to Harry, holding on to his jacket sleeve.

In front of them, laid out serenely like maybe it could just be asleep, is a deer. Its small, glassy eyes are green, glazed over and obviously dead, and its throat is torn wide open. 

"Well shit," Niall says. 

When Harry was ten years old, his first cat, Max, had died. He'd found him lying under the coffee table in the living room, stiff and cold, and he cried for two weeks afterwards. It was a heart attack, the vet had told them, nothing they could have done. He feels bizarrely like that now, like he's ten again, small and shaky with stinging eyes and an ache in his heart. 

"A bear?" he asks, shakily, knowing full well that he's never actually smelled a bear in this forest. Next to him, Louis unfreezes and moves closer, wrapping a small hand around Harry's arm. He's infinitely comforting, soothing to Harry's suddenly frazzled nerves. 

Zayn looks up, turns kind eyes on Harry. "This is definitely a werewolf. No wild animal kills prey like that," he motions to the gashes on the deer's neck. Harry chances a slow glance, hypnotised by the sickly shine of the wound. He's reminded of the things he'd seen in Louis's memories, sharp claws and torn flesh.

"I didn't know there were others here," Harry frowns.

A silence falls, stretching over seconds that feel like minutes. Harry's fingers go cold, and it's not from the wind. 

"There aren't," Louis says finally, soft against Harry's harsh breathing. "We've been the only ones here for a while." 

"Oh," Harry says. Louis squeezes his arm. "The only ones? Really?" 

"Yeah," Louis says. "They've all gone. It's been 'round a year, I think, since that twat Grimshaw packed up and left."

"Louis went and pissed on his fence after," Zayn whispers in Harry's direction. There's a spark dancing in his eyes, a flame of mischief he usually only gets when he's around Louis, and Harry loves him so much, loves all of them for never wavering, running to support him on his wobbly knees when they're standing around something that scares them all. It's in the air all around them, a scent so strong it's almost palpable – the fear.

"What does it mean, then?" 

Niall sighs heavily, digging around his pockets. "It means we have to look if there's more." He finally gets a hold of his phone and dials, the ring deafening in Harry's werewolf ears. Zayn turns on his heel and walks away, watching the ground and sniffing tree trunks, and Liam leaves in the opposite direction. Niall himself starts walking slowly, listening to his phone ring, and waves Harry off towards where the trees grow thicker. He's smiling a little, obviously trying for Harry's comfort, but the worry line across is forehead is dark and prominent. It looks out of place on somebody so young. 

"Come on, love," Louis says, tugging gently on his arm, and Harry jolts. He'd forgotten Louis was right next to him, sunk into the warmth Louis had provided unthinkingly. "Let's go," he says again, starting to walk away slowly, and Harry follows. 

The trees close in on them as they walk, growing closer together, the leaves over their heads stealing away the moonlight. 

"What am I supposed to be looking for?" Harry asks, lost as he tries to let his sight adjust. He's hanging off of Louis like a limpet, focused on putting one foot in front of the other. 

"The same thing as before," Louis says amicably, indulging him. "Strange smells and such. Anything out of the ordinary, really." 

"I don't know it here," Harry says. In front of him, a bird flies from one tree to another in a flurry of leaves. Louis reaches over with his other hand to lace his fingers with Harry's, leaning into his side. 

"I haven't been here in a while, either. Always thought it was a bit scary, to be honest." 

Harry bites back a smile. The familiar coldness of fear is still numbing his fingertips, but Louis sharing the feeling takes some of it away. 

"It _is_ really dark," Harry says. "We should've taken a torch."

Louis scoffs. "Please. We're werewolves, all we do is creep about at night." 

Harry sinks into the ground a little with every step, moss and grass squelching wetly underneath the soles of his wellies. Louis is the one leading them, steering this way and the other, weaving them in-between the trees with ease and stealth reminiscent of his wolf. Harry listens in for the other boys, thinks he can hear Niall's accent ring underneath the trees and someone walking slowly a little ways to their left.

"See anything?" Louis asks once, twice, three times, and each time Harry can only shake his head mutely. The wind picks up, howling around them.

"Lads?" Niall yells suddenly through the trees somewhere vaguely to their right. They turn in his direction and speed up automatically, even if his voice sounds normal and his heartbeat, faint as Harry can hear it, is steady and calm. 

"Coming," Zayn shouts back from behind them, the echo of his voice meeting Niall's. It sounds eerie, like a track off the soundtrack of a bad horror film. 

Their noses lead them back to where the forest is sparser, white with moonlight and dancing with dust motes. Niall is standing on the side of a small clearing, moving the light of his torch slowly left to right. His shoulders are stiff. 

"What's up?" Louis asks, finally letting go of Harry's hand as he hops over a bush. Liam's already there, staring along with Niall, and neither of them says anything. 

"Ni?" Louis asks again, voice soft and worried, and it's when he steps closer and turns to put a hand on Niall's shoulder that Harry sees his eyes catch on the clearing, and he freezes as well. His hands curl into fists. "Haz," he whispers. 

Harry frowns, stepping out of the shadow until he's perfectly aligned with Louis. It's in the air again, the sickly sweet smell, and he has an inkling of what he'll see when he peels his eyes away from Louis's concerned face but he's not prepared. 

The clearing that stretches in front of him could have been quite beautiful, actually, once upon a time. It's full of tall grass that seems out of place in the forest, blades swaying gently in the wind, sheltered by a circle of oak trees. It's the kind of place one would come to on a sunny summer afternoon, a place that would be special to someone because of how secluded it is, how seductive in its softness in the midst of rough bark and muddy soil. 

It's covered in dead animals.

Harry stands, rooted to the spot once again, and he doesn't even realise he's trembling. Dozens of empty eyes are staring at him, without a hint of emotion, yet still reproachful, somehow, and the blood makes the grass dark, even in the moonlight. The first wildflowers of the year are hopelessly trampled in the mess, matted in fur like morbid funeral arrangements. There's a rabbit over in the corner with its head bent at an impossible angle, and a doe with bones white like snow. There are so many of them, a collection of needlessly taken lives and open gashes and still-hot wounds. 

Harry turns away, bends forward and loses his dinner. The air feels too thick all of a sudden, like he shouldn't be allowed to breathe it with everything it carries.

Like a drink of water in the middle of a desert, it only takes Louis a few seconds to be by his side, rubbing Harry's back through his jacket and providing a solid focus point in a world of blurry shapes and dark shadows. 

"Okay, love," Louis murmurs, and his voice is shaking, "you're okay. You're all good." 

Harry doesn't think he is, but he so desperately wants to be. He wants to straighten back up and comfort Louis the way Louis is comforting him; he wants to take them both someplace else, someplace that's warm and dry and locked away from the outside world. 

They all hear Zayn rustling through bushes and snapping twigs as he walks to them quickly. The bright orange tip of his cigarette is the first thing Harry sees when he raises his head. 

"Hey, what's—" he stops, looking at Harry and Louis and Niall and Liam in turn, waving his own cigarette smoke away as he sniffs the air. It's one of the most werewolfy things Harry had ever seen Zayn do; together with Louis's presence steady at his side, it gives him something to focus on when his stomach hurts with dry heaves and his throat burns. Harry's been a mess since they walked up here, really. He probably shouldn't have come. 

"Shit," Zayn says quietly when he finally catches on. He doesn't walk out into the clearing like Liam is doing, instead comes up to Harry's other side and rests a cool hand on the back of Harry's sweaty neck. "You okay?" he asks quietly, gentle like he always seems to be, with Harry, with the world. 

Harry coughs and sputters a little more, trying to breathe as little as possible. He's got Louis's scent surrounding him now, joined by Zayn's leather and smoke and musky cologne, and it helps him so much to have them here, even silent and on edge. 

"'M fine, yeah," he says finally, straightening up. He still anticipates the familiar twinge under his shoulder blade, feels it like a phantom pain even though being bitten had fixed his back. He feels small and young again, like a kid that's trespassing into areas of life he has no idea about. 

Before he's had a chance to breathe out and try to stop shaking, Harry is being held. Louis curls around him, short and fiercely protective, and Harry burns bright with love. He wraps his own arms around Louis in return, riding out his tremors as Louis slumps into him boneless and shaky. He's breathing sharply against Harry's neck. 

Over Louis's head and his own nose buried in Louis's hair, Harry sees Zayn nod at them and turn away, heading for the others. Harry has a niggling want to be included in whatever is said, but he's not letting Louis go until it feels safe, until he's sure neither of them will fall into pieces as soon as they pull away. 

He's not sure why it's hit him this hard, and Louis too, but the stench is still making him sick and he doesn't want to think about it any more than he has to. He already knows he's got a sleepless night waiting for him. 

"Haz," Louis says finally, when he's steadier and his heartbeat has calmed, "we should probably…you know." 

Harry nods wordlessly against Louis's head and loosens his hold. They walk slow, and Harry holds his eyes half-closed. Louis pulls him to a stop once they're knee-deep in grass, right at the edge. In the middle of the clearing is Niall, running his hands through his hair and pacing in a circle. Liam and Zayn are standing close together, their arms pressed against each other as they look around with heads bowed. The air is tense. 

"Why would anybody do this?" Harry asks, a question that's been on his tongue since that first deer they found. He feels stretched thin and ready to snap, his wolf agitated. "I mean, what's the point?" 

Niall finally slows down. "It's…somebody wants us to know they're here. It's a threat. They want us to be afraid." 

Harry can't help thinking, looking out over death and blood and suffering, that whoever's responsible is not doing too bad a job. 

"Who, though?" Louis asks quietly, looking blankly at the fawn laid out by his feet. "And why? We've not done anything. Why would any Alpha do this here?" 

"Alpha?" Harry frowns. 

"Definitely an Alpha," Liam says, nodding softly. "This is…it's someone who's gone rogue, or someone who's out for revenge. A Beta wouldn't be this brutal, and it couldn't slice a deer's neck clean open." 

"Why would they want _revenge_ on us?" Louis asks. The worry line on his forehead gets deeper by the second. "We're not even a proper pack. We're completely harmless," he says, and Harry can tell from his voice that it's not actually a good thing. 

He's seen the way Louis watches his boys when they muck about in the back garden, playing fetch with Liam or trying to prove that wolves can definitely climb trees. Harry is not quite sure what the magic is in a pack, but he knows that there's a deeper connection that comes with it, a vein that runs through every member of it and binds them together for life. He thinks Louis would love it, if only for situations like this one, where they could protect each other much more effectively. 

They stay silent after that, searching for an answer to the question that won't leave them with shaky knees and racing hearts. Niall walks away to phone Bobby, leading, and the rest of them follow silently. There's nothing more to be done. 

When Harry is lying in Louis's bed with the boy pressed tight against his side, actually asleep, he thinks about the creaky front door without a proper lock, and the windows that blow open every time a breeze whispers through the forest. If something is coming, the physical walls protecting them aren't enough; it's only a question of time before the rest of them fall.

*

The first time Harry meets Bobby Horan, he is terrified. It's not that the man himself looks particularly terrifying at all, really, but he may or may not be holding a pistol in one hand and a longbow in the other.

"How much longer do you think?" Zayn asks, bored, from above them as he drags on his cigarette. 

"Any minute now," Louis says. 

True to his prediction, Niall finally stops arguing with his dad. They glare at each other for a moment, then start walking towards the front porch, where Harry and Louis and Liam are seated. Their gait is the exact same, and they're both looking strangely sinister in their matching black clothes – Harry would take a moment to coo, and maybe point out the similarities in their features, but he doesn't get the chance before they stop. Then, Bobby Horan is towering over Harry and looking at him with a slight frown on his face, like he's trying to figure him out.

"Um," Harry clears his throat. "Hello, sir." 

Niall snorts like a dying animal, but Bobby seems to appreciate Harry's polite ways, just like his mum had taught him people would. In seconds, the frown slips off his face, and is replaced by a smile full of teeth that looks incredibly familiar. 

"You must be Harry, then," he says, puts his gun into a holster on his belt and extends a hand to shake. His accent is stronger than Niall's, Harry observes. 

"Yeah, I mean, uh, yes. That's me. Harry. Styles. It's a pleasure to meet you," he stutters out, ever eloquent. "I've heard a lot about you," he adds, and immediately wants to stand up and go bury himself in the garden. At his side, Louis chokes on a laugh, but before Harry can be hurt, he feels Louis's arm run soothingly across his back, stopping to rub between his shoulder blades. 

"Same here, lad," Bobby Horan grins. "I'm Bobby. Please don't call me sir." 

"Okay, sir. I mean, Bobby." 

Zayn hangs his head, shoulders shaking with laughter, and puts out his fag inside an empty flowerpot, and Bobby finally, blessedly turns away from the sight of Harry's no doubt rapidly reddening face. Harry watches the afternoon sun glint off the polished bow in the hunter's hands with a vague sense of dread. 

"Louis," Bobby says, inclining his head. He's got a stern face on, all furrowed eyebrows and set jaw, but Harry can see the amused tilt to the corner of his mouth. 

"Bobby," says Louis happily, bouncing in place. "Always a joy. What do you say we take this inside?" 

And so they do. Harry picks himself up slowly, the last one to enter the house, and he can't help the cautious look he throws over his shoulder before he closes the door. By the time he catches up, Louis has put the kettle on for tea and is raiding the cupboards Harry's just reorganised, looking for mugs. Completely unaware of the other people in the room, Harry zeroes in on him and how incredibly _adorable_ he looks in his beanie and Harry's jumper and standing on his tiptoes. He doesn't even think when he goes over, pats Louis consolingly on the hip and starts setting out mugs from their new designated cupboard. 

Louis pouts immediately. "Why there? That's stupid," he says quietly. Harry pecks him on the cheek. 

"They're right above the kettle, babe. So you don't even have to open your eyes when you're making a cuppa in the morning." 

Louis tilts his head to the side, obviously considering this. Harry grins at him and leaves him to it, turning to sit down at the table. It's not until he pulls his chair closer and laces his fingers on the tabletop that he realises Bobby Horan is quite unsubtly staring at him. 

"What?" he asks, maybe a teensy bit defensive. It's not a good idea, especially when he starts thinking of all the places a person can hide a sharp object if they really want to.

Bobby, bless his cheery Irish soul, just grins at him again. ”Nothing at all."

Once they've all settled with their tea, a heavy silence falls over them all, familiar by now, uncomfortable like a too-thick blanket. Bobby's bow is laid out in the middle of the table, dark against the pale wood, a half-circle of arrows arranged neatly within his reach. Harry recognises it for what it is, but he's not bothered. 

The clock ticks. Louis scratches his nose. 

"So," Bobby says finally, clapping his hands, too loud underneath the tall kitchen ceiling. "It appears we've got a situation here." 

Louis sighs, fixing his beanie. Harry knows by now that it's a nervous habit of his, something that he does unconsciously. He can see Louis's fingers trembling. "Do you know anything?" 

"No," Bobby says seriously. "There's no track of violent activity. No attacks, anywhere in the entire country. Harry here is the last forcibly bitten victim that we know of." 

"That's almost five months," Liam says. He's frowning, lips pressed together into a thin line, and Harry watches, a little mesmerised, as Zayn runs his fingers lightly over his shoulder.

"Sure is. I'll be honest with you, boys. We have no idea what the hell is going on."

"Have you checked up on other packs around here? Seen if any of them is missing an Alpha?" 

"Done that," Niall says before his father can. "I was running around lairs all last week. Everyone's doing great apparently, and nobody's had half the animals in their territory killed." 

"What a shocker," says Louis quietly, a bitter twist in the bow of his lips. Harry pries one of Louis's trembling hands away from his mug and weaves their fingers together. 

"What are you thinking?" Bobby zeroes in on him immediately. 

"Nothing," Louis shrugs. "I just…this is obviously personal. There's no other explanation for it. And none of us have exactly done anything to warrant this kind of reaction, except, you know, _me_." 

"What exactly have you done?" Zayn asks, eyebrow cocked.

"You know what." 

There's a breath of nothing, like all the air's disappeared from the room. Harry squeezes Louis's hand, shaking his head. No way. 

"Louis," Bobby leans forward. "Far as I know, you've never even seen an Alpha. There's no way you caused this, this is…I've not seen anything like it before." 

"Yeah," Louis breathes, "that's the scary part, innit." 

"I shot Taylor Swift in the leg, if it makes you feel better," Niall says. Louis actually does smile at him, and Harry's glad, so glad that they always manage to keep each other's spirits up through jokes or heart-to-hearts or over-the-top renditions of instrumental film soundtracks. 

It's just that, remembering that morning, he has to dig his nails into his palm and focus on breathing very, very hard. He'd like to close his eyes, he thinks, but instead of darkness, he'd probably see flashbacks. Louis torn, bloody, dead. Louis shot full of arrows. Louis protecting Harry with the last of his strength. 

Louis, like he feels Harry suddenly freeze – he probably does – moves his chair closer and runs a comforting hand down Harry's thigh. The warmth of him melts the ice cold fist that's clenched around Harry's heart.

"Fuck, sorry," Niall catches on, even though Harry is sure he's not showing any actual signs of distress. "That was a shit thing to say." 

Harry is inclined to agree, but. It made Louis smile, and that counts for something. 

"It's okay," he whispers, smiling tightly. Under the table, Niall nudges him in the foot, and his expression resembles a kicked puppy. Harry nudges back. 

Bobby clears his throat. "Either way, you need to come up with a plan, in case of emergency and such. If somebody's actually out for you, you need to be prepared." 

"Prepared how?" 

"Decide on your first response, if you fight or run or hide. You need to settle on someplace safe you'll meet up if you get separated. Get somebody to lead, learn how to follow orders, make sure Harry is up to speed on everything, if he wants to be involved in this," Bobby shrugs. "Standard stuff." 

They all blink at him with wide eyes. The sick feeling that had been roiling in Harry's gut on their nighttime trip wakes up again. "Of course I want to be involved," he says immediately, as authoritatively as he can. If it actually comes down to fighting, he absolutely needs to be here. He needs to stand by his friends, his _pack_ , and protect the house that's become his home. He needs to be here with Louis; he'd made a promise. 

Bobby doesn't seem surprised at all, speaking before anybody else gets a chance, "I figured." Harry nods at him in thanks. 

"Alright then," Louis says, pressing his free hand against the tabletop, "battle plan." 

They spend the next three hours hunched over with shitty drawings and papers that inevitably get stained with tea, with Bobby acting as a human encyclopaedia on weapons and fighting and everything supernatural. Harry gets progressively more nervous. By the time Bobby and Niall get up to leave, they sky outside has long since gone dark. They all go outside, watch them slump wearily into the car and drive away. Nobody speaks. 

Louis has been glued to Harry's side ever since they sat down at the table, and Harry's heart hurts with how much he loves his boy, how much he loves _this_ ; the way they seem to know what the other needs, like it's an instinct that came along with the bite and feels as natural as breathing. He revels in the softness of Louis's fingers where they dig into his side and trace circles on his scalp, keep the cold away. 

It seems different now, the dark forest staring back at them from outside the protective circle of the porch light. The trees are too tall and terrifying, the breeze too cold, and all of the beauty seems to have bled out of it, like someone's painted the picture over with dark watercolours. There's an ever-present chill on the back of Harry's neck whenever he's out there in the open, like thousands of eyes watching him, whispering across his skin. He remembers the joy he'd take in walking through the forest slowly, enjoying everything the nature would give him. He'd watch squirrels dart back and forth across the forest floor and listen to the leaves humming in the wind and breathe in the fresh air that made him feel free. The arrow in his side took some of it away, all those weeks ago, and now it's gone completely. He runs these days, never looking away from the path in fear of what he might find. 

He doesn't want the fear or the anxiety or the darkness that seems to have settled over them all. He doesn't want to dream about the forest covered in blood. 

Soon, it will be summer, and Harry wants to be here to see it. As he looks out and imagines red eyes staring back at him from the night, he's not sure wanting is enough. 

Later that night, after he's crawled into Louis’s bed and rubbed his face against the sheets until the only thing he could smell was Louis, he lies awake and stares at the ceiling. He's thinking of his own bed, back in his hall, and how his roommates probably don't even know if he's still alive. 

When Louis comes back from the shower, Harry can hear him stop in the doorway, feels Louis's gaze prickle on his face. 

"Hey, love," he says quietly, like he doesn't want to disturb Harry's serene silence. Harry looks over at him, soft and backlit by a golden glow from the bathroom. The corner of his mouth is quirked up in a sad smile, and his eyes are so gentle Harry thinks he can feel them like a touch. 

"Come here," he whispers, trying his best to get himself together, quell the shaky feeling taking over his body from the inside. Louis walks over quickly, like the invitation is the only thing he's been waiting for, and throws himself on the bed, towel and all. His hair is dripping down his naked chest, and as much as Harry would like to lick the water off, watching it trickle down is actually calming. 

"How are you feeling?" 

Harry closes his eyes. He's not let anything on, but he knows he's been obvious. "I don't know," he says, and gives in to the warmth of Louis's flushed skin. He wraps his arms around Louis's waist the best he can, pulls him close and hides his face in Louis's neck. It might be his favourite place in the world, if only for the way it makes breathing a little easier. 

Louis's fingers are immediately in Harry's hair, separating the tangles Harry's gotten through the day. He slides his other hand underneath Harry's shirt and settles it on his hip, a warmth so immediate it spreads through Harry's bones like lightning, makes him feel a little less cold. 

"I'm sorry you have to go through all this," says Louis, lips resting on Harry's forehead. 

"I chose to, didn't I?" 

Louis shakes his head imperceptibly. "You never asked for the bite." 

"Guess not," Harry says, taking a breath. It's pure _LouisLouisLouis_ that assaults his senses, the scent that's become home. "But I did ask to stick around. And I decided to be a part of all this. I can't just sit around and do nothing while you, all of you, are out here fighting for your lives." 

"Babe," Louis whispers, "it was your choice, but that doesn't mean you can't feel like crap about it. I do. I'm scared." 

"Me too," Harry mumbles, pressing his lips against Louis's throat. His jugular is pulsing hot and strong. "'S a good thing we have each other." 

Louis squeezes his hip, moves in a little closer, breathes a little deeper. "Harry, I…I know you don't need it, but I promise I'll protect you no matter what, okay?" 

And Harry understands. He feels the same, really, telling himself over and over that it's better like this, better when he's right here, because he can _do something_. Try his hardest to protect the man he loves, stand by his side. 

"Thank you," is all he says, and he knows that Louis gets it, too. Then, "Do you have any idea what we're up against?" 

Louis freezes a little next to him, muscles stiffening. "No," he breathes out, finally, "I know about as much as I told Bobby. It might be nothing, but…I don't know. It doesn't feel like it." 

Harry nods, feels the heaviness still settled in his bones, the headache he's had since the morning that's making him weary. It's a sense of foreboding, inside every single inch of his body. He pulls Louis closer just at the thought, at the memory of fire and explosion and thick, thick smoke. 

"We should sleep," Louis says into the silence. Harry nudges his nose underneath Louis's jaw.

 _We should_ , he wants to say. "I love you," he says instead.

To his credit, Louis doesn't have an outwardly reaction, but his heart picks up speed under Harry's ear. He presses his face into Harry's hair, and Harry can feel him smile slowly; he can imagine it taking over every crevice of his face, carving out crinkles that look like happiness. 

"I love you, Pup," he says, and his voice is – magic. It's tender and light and everything Harry wants with him forever. "So much." 

Harry has a ball of fire inside his chest. It started out inconspicuous, months ago, when he first looked at Louis and thought _oh_. Now, it's a flame that's lazily licking its way through his veins, prickling his skin and burning from the inside. He wants to climb on the rickety roof and look out at the sun and tell it he's got something brighter right here, in his arms. 

Finally, Harry raises his head to look Louis in the eye. They're both grinning like loons, caught in the moment, a blip in time that shines too bright to ever be tainted. 

Loius leans in for a kiss, and Harry meets him halfway. He feels the flames burn higher, feels Louis's skin brush against his like sparks. He loves him so much he can barely breathe. 

"We'll get through this, yeah?" Louis whispers against Harry's lips, pressing their foreheads together. "No matter what happens. You and I." 

Harry likes the sound of that. "You and I," he smiles. He's got other thoughts racing through his head, thoughts of promises and vows and dreams come true, but right now, there's nothing more he could ask for. It's Louis and him, and it's enough; will always be enough. 

Eventually, they manage to get under the slightly damp covers and press so close they stick together, skin to skin. Harry makes himself small, for once, leaves responsibility behind for a night in Louis's arms. He tucks his head underneath Louis's chin, rests his face on Louis's shoulder, wraps an arm and a leg around him, effectively trapping him where he is. By the happy skip of Louis's heartbeat, he doesn't seem to mind. 

"Hey, Haz," Louis whispers, just before they both drift off. "Let's go have a fancy dinner tomorrow." Harry chuckles and kisses his chest. He tries his best to capture everything he's feeling, take a mental picture of the way they're tangled – for worse days. 

The next day, Louis dresses up in a shirt and slacks, takes Harry to a restaurant and pulls out his chair. There's a candle of the table, and the flame of it paints Louis's eyes turquoise. 

They chase away the cold. Harry burns in the most pleasant of ways.

*

They come on a Friday. Harry thinks, before anything else, that it's unfair; they'd just been settling in for an early afternoon nap all over each other in the living room.

Oddly enough, it's Niall who notices first. He's the most awake out of all of them, sitting back against the sofa and playing FIFA with the volume on low, accommodating Zayn's head on his thigh and Harry's chin on his shoulder. They're all very attuned to him, really, because he's kind of their badass token human. 

Anyway.

It's Niall who notices first. Everybody can tell by the way his fingers still on the controller, the cautious way he turns the volume to low. Louis sits up, immediately alert; Harry hears his heartbeat quicken. Niall paces slowly over to the window, pressing his nose to the glass and looking outside, far removed from the usual him with flyaway limbs and easy smiles. His shoulders are stiff, legs planted firmly on the floor; he looks like a hunter, and it's what makes every one of them perk up. 

Zayn opens his mouth, presumably to ask Niall if he's okay, but Louis shoots out an arm to stop him. Harry can tell Niall is listening for something – the only logical thing to do is try to listen as well. Next to him, Louis bows his head, closes his eyes and does the same. 

It's just the sounds of the forest, at first – the usual gentle hum of leaves in the wind and the scurry of rodents underground. Harry reaches further, listening for the highs and lows, for things out of the ordinary. That's when he catches it – first just a whisper that the wind carries in, wrapping seductively around Harry's ear and fading away, but as the seconds tick, it gets louder, closer. The second Harry recognises it is the second Niall's breath hitches. 

"No," he says, quiet, breathless, and then he's scrambling away from the window, tossing his phone to Louis. 

"What—"

"Call my dad," he barks. "Tell him to get here as fast as he can. Code red." 

Time stands still for what feels like hours. Harry desperately wishes he were on a TV series, Doctor Who or some such thing, so that he could stop the moment and let himself breathe. He wants to just get up and walk around, get his thoughts in order, regroup, but he can't. He's stuck in this; it's coming closer with every second ready to trap him, like an avalanche looming above his head. 

Then, Niall is running upstairs and Louis is bringing the phone to his ear, and through every wall he's put up to conceal it, Harry can read the fear on his face clear as day. Zayn stands up slowly, breathing too loud for Harry's ears, and Liam follows. 

"What do you want us to do?" Liam asks, and, right. Louis is in charge. Somehow, they'd thought that putting extra weight on him would be a good idea. 

As if sensing Harry's thoughts, Louis looks up at him desperately, fingers going white around the mobile in his hand. 

"Stick to the plan," Harry answers. "Remember? We need to see who it is and what they want. If they've got any weapons."

"Right," Zayn says. He turns and unthinkingly bows his head to Harry, then jogs, looking a little startled, up the stairs.

They've found vantage spots around the house, places that would let them see what's happening but won't be seen from outside. One of them is right in Zayn's bedroom, and Harry hopes he'll make good use of it. Zayn has sharp eyes, trained by many a late night escapade where he's had to compensate for the difference between his sight and that of a fully shifted werewolf. 

Liam leaves as well, taking Loki with him. He walks silently through the foyer and down to the basement, where they've found an actual window, though covered in grime and old newspapers. Harry should go, too, should cover the one remaining blind side of the house, but he can’t. Louis is shaking right in front of him, curled into himself and falling apart at the seams. Harry physically can't bring himself to leave him. 

Just as he sits back down, fumbling awkwardly with his hands not knowing what to do, he hears the line click open. 

"Son?" Bobby is asking, and he doesn't sound nearly as cheerful or calm as Harry remembers him. 

Louis has to clear his throat multiple times before he can speak. "Bobby—hi. It's, it's Louis."

 "Fuck."

"Yeah, it's—we're—Niall said to tell you it's code red," his lower lip trembles. He bites it, and Harry startles at the sight of sharp fangs in his mouth. 

"I'm on my way," Bobby says immediately, and Harry can tell he's moving, even on the phone. Things clunk all around him, heavy things, and it only takes seconds before the telltale sound of a car starting coughs over the speaker. "Stick to what we agreed on. Don't come out of the house, Louis, you hear me? _Don't_. Come. Out."

Louis blinks, taken aback. His eyes glow electric blue. "I won't, yeah—why would I?" 

"Just…please. I'll see you when I get there." Louis pulls the phone away from his ear, making to hang up, when Bobby's voice sounds again. "And lads?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Be careful. Look after each other, alright?" 

Harry finally closes a hand around Louis's wrist like he's wanted to for what seems like ages. The pulse under his hand is racing at breakneck speed, Louis's blood probably full of adrenalin. "We will. Please drive safe," he says, and resolutely taps the red button. 

They're silent, again. They're breathing into each other's personal space, a warmth that lets Harry knows Louis is very much alive, very much here, and this is all very much happening. 

"We need to go watch out, Lou," he says gently, watching Louis's nails elongate and sharpen, then retract back. Louis is squeezing his hands into fists, trying to hide the tremor in them.

"Lou," he says again, and finally, finally Louis raises his head to look at him. His eyes are the colour of ice, halfway between his natural colour and the werewolf one, lashes wet, but once he meets Harry's eyes, it only takes him a blink to go back to being human. His fangs retract, leaving nothing but small indents in the flesh of his lip.

"Come on," Harry says, trying to keep himself together. Louis nods and stands up, taking them both to the kitchen. It's the riskiest vantage spot, the one Louis had automatically said he'd take, and he wouldn't hear anything else. Now, as Harry settles next to him in the meagre shadow of their fern plant, he desperately hopes that being quick will be enough. 

Then, there's nothing. The house is silent and still, everyone hidden the way they should be, and the forest outside the window is a perfect picture of serenity. The spring colours move perfectly in the breeze, and not a leaf is out of place. 

After several minutes of tense muscles and quivering heartbeats, Louis looks up at Harry. 

"What do you think code red—," he starts, whispering, but he never gets to finish. Harry grabs his wrist hard enough to break it, if he made any sudden movements, and all the air in the room is suddenly gone. 

There is a small group of people, fanned out and coming together slowly from between the trees. Harry has never seen any of them – any of them except one. He would recognise the perfume anywhere, the blonde hair and a blood red lip. She's got a braid swinging down her back as she walks, agile like a cat, barely sinking into the soft forest floor. Harry can't move, can't breathe. He thinks his heart may have stopped.

"No," he whispers. "No way." 

Next to him, Louis rises higher, just enough to see outside, and Harry can identify the exact moment he freezes. They're still as statues, crouched next to each other under the kitchen windowsill, and Harry is fighting to stay where he is. He's had enough nightmares about this _, enough_.

The Swifts come together and stop, staring up at their house, their _home_ , with a hundred different derisive expressions on their faces. Harry counts eight of them, a small army dressed in black, shiny leather and gleaming metal and the poisonous, rank stench of wolfsbane. He recognises it this time around, can almost taste on his tongue, feel it in his veins again. 

"Where is he?" a woman asks, thin and wiry and grey-haired. She must be over sixty, and Harry feels sick with it, with the knowledge that life has taught her nothing but hate. 

"He'll be here," Taylor responds, stepping closer, reaching out a hand almost like she wants to touch the walls. "Any minute." 

_What are they doing here_ , Harry thinks _. Why here, why now? What have I done?_

Louis, like he's in Harry's head again, wraps his small fingers around Harry's forearm. He's still warm, still here.

 _Who are they waiting for?_ Harry mouths to Louis, barely daring to breathe. Louis shakes his head. He doesn't know, and it makes Harry even more uneasy, if such a thing is possible.

He tries to collect himself and survey the danger, just like Bobby had told him to. Eight people. Each one of them has a bow and a quiver slung over their back, gun holsters on their belts, some of them more than one. Harry can't quite breathe. There are _bullets_ in those guns, probably silver-shelled or infused with wolfsbane or both. He'd talked a lot about hunter weapons with Liam and Niall, after his unfortunate run-in with Taylor. He knows what they're up against.

One wrong move, one hit, is all it takes. The bullet will shatter, the poison will chase him down and flood his heart; he'll die. Slowly, painfully, with just enough time to be heartbroken, but he will.

Or Louis, if he does something stupidly heroic to protect one of them. Or Zayn who, as fast as he is, is an easier target in his half-human form. Or Liam. Or Niall. Any one of them. They're staring death in the face.

Harry feels his usual stupid bravery leave him like a leaf blown away in the wind. He feels like one, too, unearthed and unstable, like somebody has pulled the ground from underneath his feet.

"Ah," Taylor says, still pacing calculatingly just outside. "Finally."

Louis stretches up, fingertips white with his grip on the windowsill. Harry slithers up next to him a little more carefully, watching the scene. Nobody has moved, like pieces on a chessboard expecting the player's commands. They're dressed head to toe in black, and Harry hopes it means that they won't be the ones to open the game.

From the looming shadow of the house, a tall figure emerges, walking slowly towards the group of hunters. Something about its gait seems vaguely familiar.

"Taylor," the person says, voice rough like their throat is full of smoke. "And the others. Hello."

Next to Harry, Louis's breathing hitches, then stops completely. His pupils widen, hands gripping so hard they twist the metal of the windowsill. Harry looks desperately between him and the outside, trying to figure out what's happening.

"Shall we?" one of the older women asks. She could very well be Taylor's mother, with short-clipped blonde hair and dark eyeliner – she looks absolutely meticulous, as if she's barely expecting to be ruffled. Harry wants to tell her _no, don't, whatever it is you're doing_ , considers throwing something outside to distract them. They've got help on the way; the longer they manage to stall, the better.

"Suppose so, yes," the figure says. It's definitely a man, now that he steps out of the shadows. When the light hits his dark hair, Louis starts rumbling low in his chest, an aggressive noise he doesn't seem to be aware of.

"Lou," Harry whispers. He doesn't get an answer.

The hunters pat down their pockets and tug on their bowstrings, checking the weapons. The buckles they're wearing glint in the afternoon sun.

Then, the man turns around.

Harry remembers.

*

_"Hey, mate?"_

_"Yeah?" Harry looks behind him, pulling on the cord of his earbuds. He's a young bloke, the one who tapped him on the shoulder, and he seems harmless enough._

_"Sorry, hi. I was wondering if you could tell me how to get to the train station?" he sounds a little breathless, running a hand through his hair and blinking too much. Harry finds him a little adorable, if he's honest; the stranger's shyness is endearingly child-like._

_"Sure, um. I'm actually headed there? You could walk with me, if you’d like," he says, trying his best to smile naturally. He'd been looking forward to some alone time with just him, his music and a good book, but he supposes it can wait._

_"Oh, that would be wonderful," the stranger gushes, a bright blush high on his cheeks._

_"Let's go, then," Harry grins, appeased by the boy's pleased expression. "This way."_

_The wind picks up as they walk silently, boots hitting the pavement in an out-of-rhythm beat. Harry's nose stings even after he buries it in his scarf, and the pockets of his coat are just not deep enough to bury his whole hands in._

_"So," the stranger starts, voice shaky with the wind. "You from around here?"_

_“Oh, yeah. I’ve moved to London for uni now, but I'm visiting my mum over hols." Briefly, he wonders if maybe he shouldn't just be giving out information about his life. It's always been in his nature to overshare, though, and he hasn't had anything bad happen to him so far._

_"Cool. I live in London as well."_

_His accent doesn’t sound like a Londoner's, but Harry doesn't mention it. He smiles, and nods. So does the stranger. They don't say anything else._

_A few minutes to the train station, there's an empty field surrounded by trees that locals use to cut their way short. A look at his phone tells Harry that his companion had held him up for a little too long – he's running late._

_"Hey," he says quietly to catch his attention. "Let's go that way, yeah? It's a shortcut."_

_He nods, following Harry without a word. Harry thinks that he looks a little different from a few minutes ago, when he'd tapped Harry on the shoulder with a blush. He seems to be holding himself a little straighter. Strange._

_Once they make their way out of the first wall of trees, the sparse sounds of the village die out behind them. Drying grass crunches underneath their feet as Harry picks up pace, nervous about catching his train. He's almost halfway down the field when he realises that the second set of steps is gone._

_"What—" he turns around. The stranger is standing only a few feet away, staring at the ground. "What's wrong?"_

_"My name is Greg," he says, inexplicably._

_"I'm Harry. It's nice to meet you, mate, but I really need to—"_

_The words die in his throat. When Greg raises his head, his eyes are glowing red; his smirk is full of long, sharp teeth._

_"It's a pleasure, Harry," he says, low and honey-sweet._

_Harry runs._

_There's a growl behind him, a cracking like breaking bones. When he's just reaching the protective shadows of the trees, he feels a weight pounce on his back. A searing pain flares to life in his left side._

_He hits the ground and, through the trees, he can see his train pull into the station._

*

Harry is shaking, and he barely even realises. He knows those eyes, recognises them clear as day when they look in his direction, red and bright like fire. He's stuck someplace between waking and sleep, frozen to the spot; when Louis starts moving next to him, he's jerked out of his state sharply, like flying and being shot back down to earth. Sounds come back to him, laughter outside and Louis's vicious, guttural growling; the pounding of Harry's own blood in his ears, the rush as memories come back to him, as his life of the past few months falls apart and becomes a puzzle he can't quite figure out.

"Louis," he manages, his own voice gruff, like he's spent the night before howling at the moon. It's an instinct, half-human and half-wolf, when he reaches out an arm to hold him back, fingers unusually rough on Louis's wrist. He feels bones shift underneath his fingers.

With a flare of rage so powerful it actually shimmers in the air and pushes Harry back, Louis tears himself out of his grasp. His eyes are alight, fur running up his nape and down his cheeks. He bares his teeth at Harry mid-shift, growls to scare him into submission, and then he's tearing out of the door, leaving it wide open. Harry feels the hole in their defences like a physical ache, right in the middle of his chest.

Time is still for a beat, two, then Harry's running without air in his lungs and spilling out onto the forest floor tangled in himself. Louis is a wolf, legs spread in a defensive stance, head hung low. Greg is standing in front of him, human save for his bright red eyes, and he's laughing.

He looks different now, a different man from the one Harry had seen in Louis's memory. He looks _dangerous_ , devoid of the gentleness that had still lingered around him back then. A scar runs sharply down his face, white and ragged.

Upstairs, Harry hears a window slamming and a chair scraping across the floor, rapid steps rushing down the stairs. The rest of them are coming to put up a front, their ragtag pack of youngsters who'd like to pretend they know what they're doing. The air feels too thin to breathe, and Harry is shaking.

"Louis," Greg says, all his attention focused on the wolf in front of him. He's coming closer, step by step, deathly silent on the forest floor, and Harry tries to blend into the background as he forces his hands to stop trembling.

It had been _Greg_ , the red eyes Harry sometimes sees in his dreams, the darkness that’s been lingering where memories should be. Perhaps it was better when he didn't remember, when he lived in blissful ignorance and went about his days in love with life; now, when he knows, remembers with a sickening swoop of his stomach, he knows without a doubt – he was always meant to end up here. He'd been a pawn, an instrument in a game he doesn't understand.

A game that, through all the disguises, was there to get to Louis. Harry had lead the way, wormed his way under Louis's skin, and been proud.

"Louis, Louis, Louis," Greg sighs. He's standing still now, so close Louis has to tip his head back to see, teeth still bared as he stares into the face of betrayal. "You never learn, do you." He reaches out a hand with sharp claws, fingers a hair's breadth away from Louis's fur when the wolf jerks back sharply, paws slipping in the dirt.

Behind Harry, Niall walks slowly out of the front door and stands still on the porch. When Harry tips his head back to look at him, he's met with wide, shocked eyes and hands that tremble where they're holding a bow at the ready. Liam and Zayn are coming from the back; Harry can hear them, and he's sure Greg can, too, no matter how quiet they're trying to be. Their breaths are both achingly familiar and deafening in Harry's ears, the rush of their blood loud like a waterfall.

"It's so sad," Greg says, mocking, as the hunters behind him chuckle and run their hands over their weapons, expressions aloof. "Poor little Louis Tomlinson. Becomes a legend in the hunter circles by surviving on dumb luck, and he doesn't even care, because his little heart is broken. It's nice to see you're as blind as ever, _love_."

Harry can smell Louis's confusion, underneath the hurt and the anger and the desperation. He wishes, more than anything, that he'd held him back somehow, that he'd stood in his way and didn't let him run out here and ruin himself.

It's too late now, though, as Greg's eyes finally move back, towards the house, towards them, just as Zayn and Liam slot into their places by Harry's side. Harry meets Greg's ruby red eyes involuntarily, his wolf shuddering at the power they exude.

"Harry," Greg says, low and sweet and heavy like molasses. "Hello."

The air shifts, then, waves of tension crashing into each other and sparking as Harry kneels, frozen on the spot. He sees, in bizarre slow motion, Louis's head turn to him. Louis makes a breathless, wounded sound, a huff like all the air in his body has left him. His eyes are a storm.

 _No_ , Harry mouths, shaking his head slowly and hoping against hope.

"Long time, no see," Greg drawls. He's walking closer, passing Louis, almost floating along the forest floor. He's pale and tall, drawn, and more than anything, he makes Harry think of a snake. "I have to say, I'd never have thought you'd be this perfect. You did exactly what I needed you to do," he stops a few feet away from Harry. "Well done."

Harry clenches his fists, stands up slowly and woodenly, like his body isn't his own.

"Harry?" Zayn asks lowly, carefully, and out of the corner of his eyes, Harry sees him inching closer with claws drawn.

He wants to explain, somehow, shatter Greg's illusion and set it right before the fight they'll have to face. The words get stuck in his throat, each and every time, scratching his insides and dying heavy on his tongue.

"Greg," Taylor says, suddenly, piercing through the storm around them like one of her arrows. She’s rich red lipstick in the fog that surrounds Harry's mind.

"Right, yes," Greg says dismissively, never looking away from Harry. "I suppose I should move this along."

And then he's right there, right inside the bubble of Harry's personal space, burning bright red. He touches a finger to Harry's face, almost reverent, and Harry can finally, finally breathe again.

He draws back, flinches. He doesn't recognise his own voice when he speaks, "Get away from me."

" _Oh_ ," Greg chuckles. "Feisty. I guess I passed some of that along."

"I'm nothing like you," Harry spits, throws the words at _his Alpha_ like he believes them. He can _feel_ Greg's power now, prickling like ice underneath his skin, and he's suddenly terrified.

" _Harry_ ," Liam breathes. "Harry, is he—"

"He bit me, yeah," Harry throws back over his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the impulse to bare his neck. He's going against himself, but it's easier when he looks out onto the clearing and sees Louis. The blue of his eyes soothes Greg's red burn, and Harry reminds himself as he grits his teeth; Louis is his Alpha. Louis is the only one he'll submit to willingly, regardless of the colour of his eyes, the only one who'll get everything of him if he asks for it.

The only one.

Liam growls, low and guttural like Harry's never heard him, and shifts slowly until his paws are planted firm on the forest floor. The string of Niall's bow creaks.

" _Yeah_ ," Greg repeats mockingly. "Which means that you'll be going with me now, please."

His eyes flash at Harry, feral, and Harry bites down on his lip so hard it breaks. It's an invisible pull, like he's a dog on a leash, and his wolf – it resists, too. Harry could cry in relief when he feels it stir angrily, bare its teeth and growl through his mouth.

"Leave him be," Niall says, and he sounds dangerous, they way he looked on that autumn morning weeks and weeks ago.

Greg sneers, baring a sharp set of teeth. Harry lets his wolf take over, shifts and lets his world bleed into monochromes. There's an unfamiliar weight on his shoulders, making it hard to breathe.

"Let's go," Greg barks, still mostly human as he reaches for the skin on Harry's nape. He's terrifying, big and powerful as he towers over Harry, and his every instinct is screaming at him to hang his head in shame, let himself be dragged away and controlled, used as a weapon to kill everyone he loves.

He doesn't listen.

In less than a second, he bares his teeth and growls warningly. The Alpha doesn't seem to care, and Harry spares a moment to viciously think _it's his own fault_. Then, his teeth are closing around a wrist, piercing skin and tendon and drowning in burning hot blood. It feels monumental, scary; freeing.

He lets go, watches Greg's pupils widen in pain, or perhaps shock. Harry’s tongue tastes unfamiliar in his mouth, numb and metallic.

Everything stands still for a moment.

Greg slinks to the ground and shifts at lightning speed, light brown fur matted around his bloody wrist. He lunges at Harry in a move Harry had seen before, wild, baring his teeth into the wind. Harry stands frozen, and his act of defiance suddenly feels much less monumental. He closes his eyes, waiting for the impact or the sting of teeth around his throat, but it never comes.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

The air vibrates as a batch of arrows is let out, sinking into the ground softly. Harry counts them all; one through eight, and Niall's where it pierces a tree. Liam moves next to him, Zayn's warmth dissipates, and Harry should move, should _do something_ , should protect them. He's the cause of this, after all.

Finally, there's movement where Harry most wants to hear it from – Louis. He hears what he thinks are Louis's paws sliding across the soft ground, sinking in to the sound of breaking grass, and when Harry opens his eyes again, he sees him running in long leaps across the clearing. He jumps, opens his mouth, and slams Greg to the ground.

For a moment, Harry is back inside the frosty morning soaked with blood, Louis's wolf quick and strong and everything that Harry had needed. The sky flares white, and the air burns cold in Harry's eyes.

"Louis!" Zayn shouts, running, kicking up dirt in his wake. Niall jogs forward, bow strung, eyes alert on the wall of hunters standing in front of him; the set of his shoulders is wide, _fearless_ , and Harry's barely breathing as he watches him dig his feet in. He's outnumbered, eight to one, facing them calm and resolute and ready for anything, and Harry is just standing here, with joints locked and his heart racing at a jackrabbit pace. Slowly, he breathes in. Out. In again, and then he's finally moving, turning his back on Niall and running towards Louis, towards where Greg is circling him with his ears flat on his head and teeth bared. He has to get him away.

 _Leave him alone_ , Harry wants to scream, but he doesn't have to – as soon as he skids to a shaky halt a few paces away, Greg's eyes meet his, and Harry has to plant his paws firmly, dig his claws into the dirt to resist the sharp tug in his stomach that plays at his instincts, whispering _submit_ into his ears over and over.

 _Come and get me_ , Harry growls, a challenge, and watches Greg abandon Louis easily. Harry turns around, springing off the ground, feeling his bones shift and slot into place and carry him where he wants to go – towards the wall of hunters with their bows strung tight and blades glinting in the evening sun. The Alpha is right on his heels, breathing heavy and unfamiliar; Harry hears his thumping blood and the heavy weight of his body as Greg skids after him on the soft soil.

He runs out into the open, free space all around him, making himself a perfect moving target, but he doesn't care for himself, not right now. He barrels right by Niall's legs, careful to veer to the side and lead Greg away from Niall. One of the Swifts, an old man, steps forward with a hungry look on his face, following Harry with his gaze like he's a ball ricocheting inside a pinball machine. He's holding a pistol in one hand, Harry sees, but can't turn back now; can't lead Greg towards his friends, towards Louis.

He slows down carefully, listening for Greg's heaving breaths and racing heart as he catches up. He hears the telltale crack of bone, the gentle rustle of fur as some of it retreats back underneath skin, and by the time Harry is looking into the barrel of a gun, Greg is crouching next to him, half-human and holding out an arm in a signal for 'don't shoot'. Harry sways unsteadily on his legs, still fighting against the Alpha's pull; it's ever-present, alive underneath Harry's skin, running through his veins like venom and wearing him out by the second.

"Greg," the old man says, gloved hand tightening around the stock of his gun. There's a shake in it, almost imperceptible, but Harry doesn't dare hope it's nerves.

"Robert. What the fuck are you doing?"

"We agreed," the man – Robert – says lowly, angrily, and his nostrils flare. "You help us get in, weaken their defences. We take care of wiping them out."

Harry's blood feels sludgy and slow, running cold and turning to ice in his veins.

Greg growls. "Not this one," he reaches out for Harry, lightning quick, and before Harry can sidestep, Greg's half-human hand is closed tightly around the loose skin of his nape. It hurts. "This one's mine," he says, and Harry _feels_ the flare of territoriality. His own wolf is reluctantly responding in kind, soft snuffles and whines and its tail down between its legs, and Harry thinks, _no_.

He wonders, for a moment where everything stills with sudden tension, why Greg wants him so badly. Harry can't be the first Beta he's carelessly created; he could have a whole pack of forcibly bitten teenagers by now, could have fooled them into believing he's the best thing that's happened to them, but. Maybe he hasn't. Maybe Harry was the first one, an essential piece to the puzzle, Greg's first loyal subject to kickstart his deranged mission, whatever that might be.

That's what people like him do, Harry thinks. Have missions, plan things that make them feel important for the price of blood and suffering.

"He can be yours after I've put a bullet in him," Robert says, jaw tight. Greg's nails extend back into claws, piercing clean through Harry's skin with a sharp sting.

The woman Harry has noticed before, with snowy blonde hair cut short, steps forward. She curls a bare hand around Robert's gloved one, pushing softly until the gun is pointed at the ground.

"Let him be," she says, voice soft and mocking. Greg shakes, and Harry can feel his rage. "He's just a pup. He barely knows what he's doing, he's not dangerous."

Greg stands up, wobbly on his feet as he draws to his full height angrily, and the heavy weight of his hand disappears. Harry's instincts are screaming at him to stick by his Alpha, and walking feels like wading through a vat of glue, but he refuses to miss his chance. Quick and silent, the way Louis had taught him on one of their many late-night forest escapades, he sidesteps until he's a good distance away. Almost all of the hunters are watching him, their eyes uniformly blue and cold, weapons at the ready, but they do nothing. They're waiting.

Finally, when he's almost under the protective shadow of the house looming above them, he turns his back and leaps into the huddle his boys have formed. Louis is standing in front, legs planted firm and splayed wide, head low, watching everything with a sharp gaze. Behind him, Zayn and Niall are crouched next to each other, and Liam's wolf is half-sitting, ready to push off the ground and run at any second.

When Harry is safely in the circle of their warmth, they all look at him with worried eyes. Niall, closest to him, puts a heavy hand on Harry's head; this one feels right, like it belongs, like home.

Louis nudges Liam towards the front of the group as he comes to stand by of Harry, just looking. His eyes are pale, back to their human colour, and he looks small, almost. Harry hangs his head, baring his bleeding nape. _I'm not his_ , he's trying to say. _Not his, never. Always yours_.

Louis breathes, sharp and surprised, and then his warm breath is spilling over Harry's neck, a rough tongue licking over his wounds. The big wolf is soothingly familiar as he gently cleans the blood, leaning his own body into Harry's like a reassurance. He huffs hotly into Harry's fur, nuzzles the side of his face, and Harry could swear he hears him, somewhere in the depths of his mind; _you're your own._

He closes his eyes, just for a second, and licks Louis across the nose in a playful argument. He remembers their promise; lets his love for the boy-turned-wolf in front of him burn bright in his veins, fill him up until his chest feels tight with the need to fight, to protect the two of them and their unconventional little family. They've got this, he's sure. Defeat is not in the cards; there's too much at stake.

Absently, he registers Niall standing up to his full height, looming above them all. His bow is empty, held loosely in his hand.

"What do you want?" he shouts, loud enough to have the clearing echo with it.

It's a good question, by all means. Harry hadn't actually thought to wonder about it, too preoccupied with suddenly finding the werewolf who bit him all those months ago.

On the tail end of Niall's question comes a laugh, high and musical, sharp like shards of glass. Harry recognises it, remembers it, feels it all the way into his bones.

"Just the glory, really. And having the opportunity to say we've killed the most elusive werewolf in all of Britain," says Taylor then, absentmindedly twirling an arrow between her fingers. Harry's scar aches at the sight. "You're uncatchable, did you know? Hiding from us with your little magic tricks…that couldn't exactly work forever, could it?" Her eyes snap straight to Niall then, full of something indescribably dark. Harry smells Niall's sudden anxiety, hears the panicked thudding of his heart, and he doesn't understand anything.

He looks at Louis, tilting his head and trying to communicate the question, and Louis shakes his head. They've not been using any _tricks_ , as far as any of them are aware. The past few days have mostly been desperation and stress and an inescapable undercurrent of fear – if there had been a way, _anything_ , they would've used it. They would've gone to the ends of the earth – were too close to almost abandoning the house as a last resort. If their attackers took a few days longer, they may have, and Harry is very glad it didn't come to that. It only provides them with a giant soft spot, something that they will all protect and the enemy knows that too, but facing down their worst nightmares anywhere that isn't the protective shadow of the house seems impossible.

"No idea what you mean," Niall says bravely, and Harry almost nods his assent, but then he catches it – barely there, the smallest stutter in the familiar beat of Niall's racing heart. It falls silent for a second too long, and Harry realises with a start that Niall is lying.

Immediately, his eyes fall to Greg, and so do the hunters'. He's still human, crouched low to the ground, muscles shifting under his skin and eyes burning red in Robert's direction, and he tilts his head in a move Harry had seen Louis do dozens of times – listening closer. Niall's feet are planted firmly on the ground and his fists clenched white, but Harry is right next to him, feels the helpless shake of his legs.

He's—confused, more than ever before, but he can't help the love that swells up in his chest. Niall is staring down a werewolf – an _Alpha –_ who used to be his friend; he's lying to his face, and he barely twitches. He holds his back straight and uncompromising, armed to the teeth with an air of authority around him, and Harry has trouble believing he's only _twenty_.

"Truth," Greg says curtly, frowning in Niall's direction. Fur starts growing out slowly over his face, filling in his eyebrows and crawling down his temples.

The short-haired woman laughs. "You mean he doesn't—oh, wow. This is priceless." Her accent makes Harry bristle.

"In case anybody's wondering," Taylor throws in, feigning boredom as she picks at her nails, "Greg just wants revenge. I guess you've figured that out."

With a deep, rumbling vibration that starts in his chest and ripples on Harry's skin, Louis growls. Harry can feel his anger, blood-red and barely contained, and prays that Greg changes his mind and turns around. This Louis is not the one he'd faced at nineteen, and if either of them attacked, Harry has no doubt that Greg would be the one helpless on his back by the end of it.

"Pretty sure you've got it the wrong way 'round, mate," Zayn says, and his voice is _cold_. Harry has never heard him talk that way, and he never wants to again. He looks wild, almost, a little like he does when it's the full moon and he has to concentrate harder to hold his wolf back.

"You abandoned me," Greg snaps. "All of you took his side. You left me there to _die_."

Louis makes a breathless, whining sound, and he seems to be having a hard time holding himself back. His muscles are taut, shifting as he rocks back and forth on the pads of his paws, claws digging ridges in the dirt. Harry curls as close to him as he dares, touching their sides together lightly.

"You tried to kill him, Greg," Niall butts in, voice sharp. "And you'd been out to control us all that time. You were never our friend, don't you dare talk about us _abandoning_ you. It's your own damn fault."

Greg shifts between one blink of Harry's eyes and another. He looks much more dangerous as a wolf, with saliva pooling around his mouth and sharp teeth on display. He hangs his head low, watching them all the while, matching Louis's tense stance. Harry whines quietly in the back of his throat, trying to think of a way to hold Louis back.

"Jesus Christ, not this again," somebody says suddenly – an old woman, grey-haired and sleek, and before he can register what's happening, the world explodes in thick smoke.

He barely manages to get air inside his lungs, trying to cough as he feels his body start changing without his permission. Something is pulled tight against his bare chest, and he feels the warmth of skin on both sides of him as the smoke lifts slowly.

They've moved closer, all the hunters and Greg, circling them like vultures. Harry doesn't know what the smoke bomb was, but it seems to have done its job – they're all fully human now, trembling on the cold ground in various states of undress, and somebody has managed to tie them together in a lopsided circle, shoulder to shoulder. When he tries calling on his wolf, he feels it cowering in a corner somewhere, small and scared and choking.

"You also hurt my granddaughter," the old woman continues, like she hasn't just incapacitated them all in the space of thirty seconds. "We don't forgive that."

"How about we settle it in a fair fight, then?" Zayn barks, still growling lowly. Harry wonders if his wolf may have been spared the worst of the smoke, since it wasn't so close to the surface.

"Oh, please," Greg laughs, and it's a nasty sound. Harry feels it creep up his neck in shivers. "There was nothing fair about killing me when I was stuck under a tree. I don't see why you shouldn't die all tied up like piglets for slaughter."

"You're pathetic," Louis spits, as if he was reading Harry's thoughts. Harry can just about hear his hammering heartbeat, but he can't begin to imagine what Louis is actually feeling. Harry had only seen Greg in a memory, for minutes, and the change in him still breaks his heart.

In a flash that's almost too quick for Harry to see, Greg is right in front of them, bent down to Louis's level. His long, pale fingers are wrapped around Louis's jaw like snakes, tilting his head every which way. Harry feels his wolf stir.

"You don't get to tell me what I am," Greg hisses. "You're the one who made me this way."

To Harry's right, Liam's muscles tense as he tries to move, chafing the rope across Harry's chest, and Niall rumbles in an impressively wolfish growl. Harry feels the body of his bow poking into his hip from behind, thinks that if he could turn to the side just a little—

"You made yourself this way," Louis says, low and dangerous, but they can all hear the hurt underneath. Harry's chest aches with how proud he is of Louis, for facing the man who broke his heart in so many ways, who convinced him that living was something to be ashamed about. He stops wriggling, pressing fully against Louis's side instead, relishing the tackiness of their naked skin and the way is sticks them to each other. The shift of Louis's arm against his is almost imperceptible, but still there, a silent _thank you_.

"Greg," Taylor says suddenly, voice sweet as ever as she steps inside the circle and towards them. "Let him be, come on. We still need them alive for a bit."

Greg's eyes flash when he looks back at her, in a way Harry can't quite put his finger on, but it seems he doesn't need to figure it out himself.

"Ah," Louis says, "now I get it."

Taylor sneers and walks right over to them, pulling Greg up by his shoulder. Harry watches, amazed, as the red in his eyes fades and he stands up without a word.

"You're a smart cookie," she mocks. "I can't believe it's taken you this long. After _Harry_ here told you that I've been watching him, after the dead animals? You're getting old, Louis. The werewolf I'd heard about would have known what was coming weeks ago."

She studies Louis's face, watching as his stony mask wobbles in the corner of his mouth and the too-fast blink of his eye. 

"Or maybe," she moves to Harry, blue eyes piercing in the worst of ways; Harry barely holds back a flinch at the phantom pain that explodes in his side at the sight of her. "You've gone soft. Look at those curls," she wraps a strand of Harry's hair around her finger. "And the pouty lips. The whole I'm-an-innocent-puppy shtick. No wonder you were too blind to pay attention. We did send Harry in to get you off your game, but I never _imagined_ it would work this well." 

Harry flinches away from her hands, trying to pull his shoulders closer to him and hide his face. The warmth of Louis's skin along Harry's side remains unchanged, but he can't look at him, _can't_. The knowledge that it had been him all along, that he's the reason they're here now, that the purest, most beautiful thing he'd ever felt for someone is the result of a plan, a _lie_ – it's too much. 

"Can we lay off the theatrics," Greg drawls, playing with the hem of the frayed shorts he's wearing, disinterested. Taylor smacks him lightly on the arm, but it looks almost affectionate. Harry's stomach turns.  "Not so fast," she says, with a pregnant look to the other members of her family, still standing at the sidelines. "Louis would like to know how we did it." 

Louis flinches, a tiny muscle movement that even Harry barely feels. From the opposite end of the circle, Niall's hand sneaks backwards until it wraps around one of Louis's wrists. Liam leans heavy into Harry's other side, tipping him to the left, towards Louis. 

"Keep your secrets," Zayn snarls, but the tremble of his voice gives him away. 

Taylor laughs, a sound not unlike breaking glass. "You wish," she says, blinking innocently at the back of Zayn's head. "Anyway. Of course I was going to bring him back. We've been friends for _years_ ," she says meaningfully, waits until her words register with all of them. 

What was left of Harry's stomach plummets and ends up somewhere at his feet. It's all he can do to stop the bile rising sharp in his throat. He thinks of Louis, nineteen and enamoured, trusting somebody for the first time in years, thinks of Greg going behind his back, leaving him to laugh at him with Taylor.

"Blood magic?" Niall asks quietly. 

"Something like that, yes," she grins. "Dangerous, very powerful, but I guess you'd know, wouldn't you."  Niall huffs, but says nothing. The pulse in his wrist jumps on Harry's skin. 

"Do you know how blood magic works, Louis?" she turns to him, the heels of her shoes leaving indents in the soft forest floor. Louis stays silent, even as his muscles tremble against Harry's. Harry can't bring himself to raise his head and look her in the face.

"It's quite hard to accomplish," Taylor crouches in front of them, just out of reach. "The werewolf and the human need to form a bond. They have to leave an _impression_ on each other."

Harry watches with sick fascination as she rolls up her sleeve, smiling all the while. Her movements are leisurely, almost lazy, like she's mocking them by taking all the time she wants. When she's done, she extends her arm towards them. On the inside of her wrist, several thin scars run parallel to each other, closing a small circle. The wound looks old, her skin scarred white and smooth. Instinctively, Harry knows exactly what he's looking at. 

"Of course, every one of those old books says you shouldn't even try it with a Beta. 'Potentially lethal', or something like that, because Beta wolves aren't strong enough."

"Ordinary Beta wolves, of course," Greg interrupts, sitting on the grass with his legs crossed. His voice leaves a bad taste in Harry's mouth. 

"Ordinary Beta wolves," Taylor says, inclines her head just so to look at her wrist. "You'd been pissing us off for a while, but I saw a potential in Greg," she smiles over her shoulder, blinking exaggeratedly. Harry's throat burns. "So I offered him a deal. He bit me, we exchanged blood, formed a permanent bond, yadda yadda yadda. The important thing is, when you finally betrayed him, I was there to bring him right back." 

"I thought you hated werewolves," Liam says drily, and Harry has to fight the manic chuckle that threatens to escape him. God. 

Taylor sneers. "Just ones like you," she spits. "You think you're so much better than us _lowly humans_. We're not letting you get away with killing innocent people." 

Harry looks at her, really looks, considering. She has that manic spark in her eye, bright as ever and wild as she looks at each one of them in turn, familiar from Harry's nightmares, and her movements go from restless through jittery to deceptively calm. She behaves a bit like Greg, in that way, and Harry wonders just how strong their bond is. 

Nobody points out Niall, a human, bound right in the circle with them, or the people with innocent blood on their hands. 

"How did you become an Alpha?" Louis asks suddenly, staring right past Taylor at Greg's relaxed form. 

Greg raises an exaggerated eyebrow. "I killed one. _Duh_." 

From the corner of his eye, Harry watches Louis press his lips together and nod, almost imperceptible. He's not surprised at the nonchalance with which Greg talks about killing another human being in cold blood. 

With a quiet twang of a bowstring, somebody releases an arrow. It lands clean at Taylor's feet, barely an inch from Harry's calf, sticking up into the air. 

"Enough, Taylor," Robert says as he looks down, notching another arrow. "It doesn't matter now. Let's do what we came here to do." 

When Taylor looks at them again, for the last time as she stands up to go back to her family, the hate in her eyes is so bright it burns Harry down to the core. She looks dangerous, and she is; all of them are. Harry isn't going to die with his hands tied to his body – they need to get out of this, give themselves a semblance of a fighting chance. 

Greg slowly clambers up and dusts himself off. If Harry hadn't seen what he's capable of, he'd almost look laughable, all pale and gangly and half-naked as he leans forward, fingers snaking around Harry's face. Harry closes his eyes in disgust.

"You'll see what I do to disobedient Betas," he whispers, eyes flaring red as he traces the line of Harry's eyebrow with a clawed finger. Harry's wolf is torn, making anxiety grow in his chest as it tries to decide who to obey. Harry tries his best to calm it down, soothe it, remind it that their real Alpha is right next to them, that nobody else gets to give them orders. 

Louis starts growling, rumbling low and guttural, and when Greg's hand snakes around Harry's neck, he jerks, jostling them all. The snarl that tears out of his throat is more animalistic that any sound Harry has ever heard him make, and when he opens his eyes, Louis's teeth are bared, blue gaze boring into the heat of Greg's red. 

"Don't you fucking dare touch him." 

Greg laughs fakely, digging his claws in. The half-healed would on the back of Harry's neck rips open again, spilling warm blood down his nape as the pain flares back to life. 

"Sorry, _love_. He's my property now."

That tears a growl from Harry himself, and from Zayn and Liam. Niall breathes heavily, and somewhere behind their backs, Harry feels him clench his hands into fists. Before they can try to do anything about the rage that swells between them, Greg stands up and jogs back to the enemy's side, shifting as he goes.

Then, easy as breathing, the ropes binding them together fall off. They exchange confused glances, all of them frozen. 

"You wanted a fair fight," yells the old woman. "Let's go, then." 

And finally, after long minutes of standing statue-still, all the hunters blend away from their background, long and lean and dark like shadows. The gentle shivering sound of bowstrings fills Harry's ears as a shower of arrows rains down on them. 

Willing his wolf to cooperate, Harry slows everything around him, just long enough to throw himself on the ground, drag Louis and Liam with him. The metal flies clean through the air, piercing nothing right where Harry's neck would have been, and all the arrowheads bury themselves deep in the dirt. 

They pick themselves up immediately, standing shoulder to shoulder. Their breathing is ragged, an adrenaline-ridden echo. Another batch of arrows arches in the air, and with one last glance at each other, they bolt. 

_Stick to the plan_ , Harry thinks as he fights the instinct to look back, make sure everybody's doing okay. The ground is all muted greens and greys underneath his paws as he concentrates on where he's stepping, relying on his ears to tell him what's happening. He trudges on, slipping downhill along the tree line, and tries not to make noise.

Up on the clearing, the hunters are shouting orders at each other, curt and precise like military speak. He hears their machetes being unsheathed as the wolves come closer. By the opposite tree line, too silent for human ears to catch, Niall is trotting, holding on to his weapons. Harry can just see the top of his conspicuously blond head. 

A whine punches through the air, breathless, and Harry immediately recognises Liam's wolf. His own is screaming at him again, this time to turn around and help his friends, his pack, his _family_. He grits his teeth. 

Finally, he meets Niall at the back of the clearing, littered with empty sheaths and broken arrowheads and hats and gloves, the hunters now far in front of them, fighting. Harry can't see Greg; knows that they're running on borrowed time, that he's probably watching them from the shadows and waiting to pounce. There is no way nobody had noticed the human and Greg'sBeta missing, but Harry will take the sense of security, even if fake. 

"Ready?" Niall asks as he kicks the hunters' possessions away casually, his movements just this side of frantic. Harry can tell how high-strung he is, how nervous. 

He yips in response, trying to communicate that he's ready as he'll ever be. 

"Let's do this, then," Niall nods, coming to stand next to him. He's somehow holding a bow with an arrow notched in it in one hand, gripping the handle of his knife with the other. Harry feels out of place, like he has no business trying to fight with him or any of the others.

Niall counts them off quietly, and on three, they're off. Harry, running on four legs, leaves him behind almost immediately. He knows that Niall is a hunter, knows that if he gets into trouble, he's more capable of defending himself than all of them combined, but sprinting forward and leaving him in the dust still makes Harry feel uneasy.

When Harry beats the slight uphill slope, he stumbles at the scene that opens in front of him. It's a whirlwind of dark clothing and dark fur, rusty blood and brown soil; even with the wind whistling by his ears, the shouts of the hunters and the wolves' growling seem too loud.

Harry can tell when another werewolf joins them; Greg runs out from underneath the cover of trees, right behind him on light feet. He looks effortless, like he belongs, as he chases after Harry with his teeth bared. He's leaner, longer, bigger, and he closes the distance between them rapidly. 

Harry pushes himself harder, feels his lungs expand inside his ribcage, driving his lanky wolf body to the limit. He reaches the fight before Greg can pounce, splays his paws wide as he pushes himself off the ground and jumps on a black-clad back. He feels his claws sink into the flesh of the man's meaty shoulders, sliding right through the tough fabric of his jumper. The man cries out and drops his hunting knife. He squirms wildly as they sink to the ground, trying to break Harry's hold on him; Harry doesn't let him, crawling onto his back while he's still stunned from the fall. From his vantage point, he spots Liam and Zayn trying to break a bow between the two them, Niall running up and firing mercilessly, and Louis – Louis is trying to dodge Taylor's machete, hopping from one foot to the other in a precarious dance. Harry's claws sink deeper involuntarily, hearing the man groan and shake underneath him. He doesn't feel any remorse. 

From the other side, Greg almost reaches him, and Harry braces himself for the impact that never comes.

Greg runs straight past him, leaving his ally in Harry's claws, upturning rocks and and grass as he speeds past. He ignores Liam with his flank wide open to him, dodges Niall's arrows, and heads straight for where Louis and Taylor are trying to wound each other. Harry pushes off his prey's back, leaping across the clearing, but he's too late. 

Greg takes all three of them, pulling them to the ground in a heap of limbs. Harry sees, almost in slow motion, as his claws sink in, stain Louis's fur red. 

He doesn't hear the scream behind him; doesn't hear the blade spinning through the air. The pain is unexpected, stops him short and has him stumbling and falling before he realises what's happening. His shoulder blade is suddenly on fire, and he feels a hot burst of blood make its way down his skin. 

He can't move, he realises; he tries, wills his legs start obeying him again, but his body screams at him in protest. All he manages is to push into a sitting position, feeling the sickly scrape of blade against bone and watching, powerless, the scene that unfolds in front of him. 

Greg has Louis pinned down on his side now, putting his entire weight on him. Louis looks incredibly small in comparison. Taylor is standing above them, an enormous hunting knife sharp in her hand. A little ways to the left, Niall is struggling to shake a man twice his size off his back, and Liam is nipping at the heels of the old woman, dodging her dagger as they run in endless circles. 

Loud and commanding, Greg growls. Harry's eyes snap back to him immediately. 

Louis is breathing hard and fast underneath the werewolf's enormous paws, ears twitching. Harry huffs through the pain, thinks, _hold on_. A few more minutes.

Taylor's shoulder sink with an exhale as he weighs the knife in her hand. The blade is trembling almost imperceptibly. Impatient, Greg growls at her again, bouncing a little and crushing Louis's ribcage. The crack of bone resonates, carries above all the shouting.

"Stop it," Taylor snaps. Harry sees the smallest crack in her ice-cold exterior, so unlike the girl who stared him in the face fearlessly after she'd taken him down with a single arrow. "I'll do it the way I want." 

Greg rumbles low in his chest, a sound that Harry clearly recognises as a warning. He's used to it from Louis, telling him off gently when he's about to stumble on a rock or accidentally crush a frog he'd been playing with, but like this, all authority, it has his wolf stepping back, intimidated. Everything in Harry screams _Alpha_ , bow, obey, but he flexes his muscles and grounds himself in the pain. 

"You're not killing him," Taylor says, stepping closer. "We agreed on this. You get the satisfaction of knowing he's dead, but he's _mine_." 

Harry flinches. 

To his surprise, Greg actually retreats. He steps off Louis's fluttering chest, and lowers his head instead until his jaws are wide open around Louis's neck, holding him in place with the phantom touch of his teeth. 

"Attaboy," Taylor smiles tightly, patting him on the back like a dog, and crouches in front of Louis. The tip of her blade comes a little too close to his heart. "Now, Louis. I feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot, no? I could learn a lot from you. Your tireless efforts in convincing yourself you're not a monster are truly admirable." 

Harry tries limping closer, driven by pure desire to sink his claws into the flesh of Taylor's wandering arms. 

She pets Louis leisurely, threading her hands through his fur. "I'd love to have you over for a visit, preferably stuffed, but," she wanders over to his neck, snakes a finger in the gap underneath Greg's teeth, "I guess we could get you there alive, too. Call the whole family, let them see that we finally got you…do you even know how much trouble you've caused us, Louis? They were all _laughing_ at us, it was completely hilarious that a teenage werewolf managed to run us off once and then give us the slip each and every time we came after him." Her hand clenches, pulling and the soft fur of Louis's neck. Harry flinches sympathetically, takes a few more wobbly steps and tries to remember what Bobby had taught him, to look for escape routes and shelter, someplace to hide Louis while his ribs heal. 

"Well," Taylor hums, light dancing off the blade of her knife as she flips it casually between her fingers. "You don't have your magic tricks now, do you. Your little witch's smoke screen was broken when Greg found the house, and you can't hide from us now, not _ever_. You're not getting away." 

Harry can tell she's getting angry, even as her grip on her weapon gets steadier and the tremble disappears from her voice. She's cold as steel now, familiar again. Greg is flexing his jaw, opening and closing, picking Louis up by his neck and setting him down like a rag doll. Tension is written clearly in the taut line of his shoulder, the stiff angle of his tail, his ears laid flat against his head. Now, Harry thinks, now is the time to stop it, before one of them snaps. He's still desperately far away, still bleeding. 

Then, two things happen. 

First, a stray arrow fights its way through the tangled bodies to Harry's left, and flies, clean and precise, to embed under Greg's front leg. The wolf howls and drags its mouth away from Louis, trying to get at it. On the other side of the clearing, Niall throws his bow to the side and grabs an abandoned machete with both hands, facing the old man Harry remembers as Robert.

Second, quick, light steps come up behind Harry, seemingly out of nowhere, and don't even give him time to turn around and defend himself. A hand, warm and decidedly human, pets his shoulder blade gently. Another one wraps around the dagger handle, and then the blade is sliding by bone and slicing through tissue that's already started healing and within two slow, painful seconds, it's out. Harry sways on his feet with the relief, and only then registers the familiar scent, sandalwood and cinnamon, cloyed with blood. Before he turns around, the warmth at his side is gone, bones crack, and then four paws and kicking up old leaves and dust, a wolf leaping forward from Harry's side. 

It's big – almost as big as Greg – and long; graceful and sleek. Its fur is black, fading into a soft brown that Harry's seen countless times before. He wouldn't even need the scent, or the warmth that suddenly explodes in his chest, to know who it is. 

Across the clearing, Niall stands frozen with a blade in each hand, and Liam tears away from a hunter with a strip of fabric in his mouth. Even the Swifts stop still, arms limp at their sides, and watch the unfamiliar wolf barrel through the clearing. The air whistles, ripples behind him. 

Taylor notices him too late. 

She screams when he hits her; he barrels into her legs first, cages her body in as they fall, and the breathless disbelief in the air is broken. 

The hunters shout at each other, loud even over the pounding in Harry's ears, and don't raise their weapons again. Their feet rattle the earth and Harry's bones; he recognises it for what it is, a chance he won't get again. The Swifts are running after Taylor like a flock of sheep – only two of them stay behind, occupied by Niall's flashing blades and quick hands and Liam's teeth. 

Harry feels his wound ripping again when he gets up, blood hot and sticky on his skin, but he refuses to care. 

It only takes him a few unsteady leaping steps to get to Louis, watch him shake off and stand up with bright eyes. Harry steps as close as he dares, rubs his healthy shoulder to Louis's, runs his nose down his face and breathes him in. He smells too much like Greg, a sharp, unfamiliar scent that doesn't fit into the soft lines of Louis's fur. 

When they untangle, the clearing still seems bizarrely empty, arrow shafts sticking out of the ground like crosses in a cemetery. They fall into step, quiet and urgent, and take cover underneath the trees on the side. 

In the protective shadow of the forest, Harry noses carefully at Louis's rib, and Louis licks the blood off Harry's wound. They crouch low to the ground as they watch, heal, and wait. 

Niall finally manages to get his foe on the ground, holding him still at knifepoint as he makes quick work of tying him up. Harry watches, fascinated, as Niall harnesses the usual starfish quality of his limbs and works meticulously. He runs to Liam, then, knocking his hunter out with a swift hit to the head, and they drag them away together, tying them to trees. 

They're two down. Harry's mouth is dry, his throat aches, and he can't believe what he's seeing. 

In the shadow of the house, Greg is still trying to right himself. He looks like a children's toy stuck on an endless loop of standing up and falling. Harry itches to go over there and draw more blood; he feels it on an instinctive level, as strong as the need to obey him had been. Louis is standing next to him breathing through pain, and it's all Greg's fault, maybe it always has been. There's nothing rational about the rage that pulses in Harry's veins. 

A howl punches through the air, like a violent splash of colour in the bleak grey of their fight. Louis flinches, yips at Harry in a short signal for _come on_ , and takes off down the hill, out of sight. The grace is back in his movements and, running to help a member of his pack, big and powerful, he looks exactly the way Harry thinks he's supposed to be. Harry follows, falling into step with Niall and Liam. 

Just behind the house, the hunters are standing in a tight circle, the lines of their shoulders impenetrable. Harry watches through the gaps between their legs, sees a tangle of Taylor's hair and matted black fur. Louis stands right behind them, plants his feet and _barks_. The air resonates with it, vicious, and the weapons are all aimed at him within seconds. 

The sight that opens in front of them chills Harry down to the bone. The wolf is weighing Taylor down, heavy on her stomach, and the fur on its back is sticky and dark, a river of blood snaking its way towards the ground. The wound is obvious and gaping, but there's no arrow. Harry breathes in, out, and tries to reassure himself that they would have heard a gunshot. 

"It's over now," Robert says, coming up to stand at the front. "Let it be now. It won't be as painful." The barrel of his gun, aimed right between Louis's eyes, doesn't shake once. 

Niall and Liam step forward; Harry, rumbling low and dangerous, is already there. He wishes he could shift and talk, but he doesn't have the energy. He already feels exhaustion clawing at his bones; the kind of bone-deep weariness that only comes from fear. 

"You're not taking our home," Niall snaps, the only one with a voice. He runs a hand through the fur on Harry's neck, rubbing in small circles that work wonders to calm Harry down. "Also, fuck off." 

Somebody hurls a dagger at him, and he bats it away with a single, cocky sweep of his bow. The metals clang as they crash together, and the blade lands in the grass. Niall barely blinks; Harry doesn't know him like this, but somehow, it makes so much sense. 

"There's four of you," he sneers as the others crowd closer, nondescript black silhouettes with death in their hands. 

"Five," Niall says. "And we're worth a hundred of you knuckleheads." 

The tension in the air feels familiar by now, and Harry gets ready to pounce or flee.

They crash like tidal waves, metal on metal and teeth on bone. Harry keeps track of his own pack, tracking their scent as he snaps his teeth around wrists and tears at clothes, knocking weapons to the ground. He sees Liam ducking machetes and the black wolf limping away to safety - after than, the world is a spiral of noise, a black hole that swallows everything around him until all that's left is the fight.

It's over almost as soon as it started. The man Harry had been trying to fell falls to his knees with a cry of pain, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder; the fletching is white and beige, not one of Niall's. 

The clearing almost looks empty on the first glance. Harry's heart is beating, vision tinging red around the edges, and it takes him a second to make sense of what he's seeing.

Bobby Horan is crouching with his knee in Robert's back, smiling pleasantly. The other hunters look to be in varying states of consciousness, groaning as they take note of the ropes wrapped around them. An unfamiliar man is helping Niall stand up and scratching Liam behind the ears at the same time; judging by his scent and the bright grin on his face, he's probably Niall's brother. Silence slowly settles over them. 

Harry feels triumphant disbelief explode in his veins like a drug. 

His eyes find Louis automatically, checking him for injuries. He seems a little crumpled, the fur on his back sticking out every which way, but his eyes are bright as ever, taking everything around him in vigilantly. Harry joins him, standing at his side. Louis lays his heavy head gently on Harry's neck.

"Everyone alright?" Bobby shouts. Robert scowls darkly under him, but there's not much else he can do. 

"I reckon so, but we need to—" Niall's response is interrupted by a weak bark. From behind a cluster of trees, the black wolf slowly trots out to them. It still looks bloody and torn up, breathing heavily, and when it slumps at Louis's feet, it almost looks dead. 

"—find him," Niall finishes, dusting himself off urgently. Liam shifts, running right on his heels. Next to Harry, Louis's wolfy scent disappears, replaced with dirt and grass and human skin. Harry follows, dragging himself forward until they've formed a tight circle around the wolf's still body. 

They look ridiculous, mostly naked and cut up and bloody, but they're alive. 

Louis is shaking as he extends a hand, burying his fingers deep into black fur. The black veins rise off his skin almost immediately, like he's barely aware of what he's doing. 

"Zayn," he whispers, running his fingers over the wolf's shoulder, up and down almost hypnotically. Harry sees the nervous twitch in his fingers, feels his restless energy, and he tangles their fingers together. Zayn's skin is dry and hot, and the pain that snakes up Harry's arm is intense, almost overwhelming. 

Liam joins them, tangling both his hands in the fur on Zayn's neck, blinking furiously. Niall looks on, wringing his fingers like he wants to help too, and Harry has a barely repressible urge to wrap himself around him and assure him that he couldn't have possibly helped any more.

The moment Zayn's breathing picks up, all of them flinch. 

"Zayn," Louis repeats again, voice small, and Harry huffs through the pain to put his other hand on the back of Louis's neck and squeeze. He gets a grateful glance in return.

Zayn whines, trembling as he opens his eyes. They barely have time to pull their hands away as he shifts, like his body is too tired to keep him in an animal state. He drags a dirty hand along the forest floor, covering his mouth as he coughs, a loud thing that echoes in the eerie silence. A long gash, halfway healed, runs from his nape, down over his hip, and curves up again towards his chest. It looks cruel; deliberate.

"M'fine," Zayn manages to rasp out, and hearing his voice is a heavy weight off Harry's chest.

"No you're not," Liam says, gruff as he wipes at his eyes. 

Louis returns their joined hands to Zayn's skin, curling lightly over his upper arm. There's still pain to be taken, and Harry is entranced by watching Zayn's wounds disappear, flow into his own veins instead. The pain isn't as bad, as bright as before, and the tightness in Harry's chest fades slowly.

"You saved my life, little one," Louis smiles, and he, too, sounds on the verge of crying. Harry's own eyes burn – with sadness, with shock, with relief. 

"Don't—" he breaks off in a fit of coughs, "don't call me that. I'm bigger than you." 

"Guess you are," Louis flexes his fingers in disbelief, tracing clear skin where tufts of fur have disappeared. "Wouldn't have known before." 

Niall wraps his own arms around himself, biting his lip to stop a smile. Harry understands; somehow, even through the tears he feels building, he wants to laugh, to run his way through the forest with wind in his ears and turn right around when he comes to the edge. 

Zayn puts his hand down, letting it rest in the dirt. His expression is solemn, a little muted and a little twisted with pain, but his eyes are warm as always looking up at Louis. 

"I'm sorry," he says, inexplicably. Liam tries to smack him, but he ends up running a hand through his hair instead. 

Louis shakes his head wordlessly, curling his fingers tighter. The veins in his forearm darken. "Don't be daft." 

Harry wants to ask a million questions, out of pure boyish curiosity, but he bites his tongue. He doesn't think he's quite grasping the gravity; hasn't been around long enough. 

"I'm not being daft," Zayn frowns, and the colour comes flooding back into his cheeks. "I could've—I don't know. It was irresponsible." 

Harry watches the gash in Zayn's back close and darken, turn into a scab then a thin, pink scar. His own body is thrumming with Zayn's pain, but the touch of Louis's hand grounds him. 

Louis's fond smile is so bright Harry can almost hear it. "How'd it feel?" he asks, and the pained lines of his face soften in wonder. 

Zayn looks at them all, lingers to send everyone a grateful look. "It was—," he breathes out, shaky. His skin feels cool and clammy under their touch. "It felt good," he says quietly, whispers, almost, and he looks down like he's _ashamed_. 

"Powerful?" Liam asks.

"Yeah," says Zayn. The corner of his mouth jumps. "But—different to what I remember. It was like…like the power was mine. Like I was controlling it, not the other way around." 

Harry smiles at him, tightens his fingers in-between Louis's. 

"All good?" Bobby shouts to them, walking out of the forest behind them with Taylor's limp body slung over his shoulder. 

"What have you—" Louis's breath hitches. Zayn blinks owlishly and shakes his head. His eyes are burning gold when he wraps his own hand around Louis's arm.

"She's fine, Lou. I promise. Just," he breaks off to cough, furrowing his brows in pain, "knocked her into a tree."

"This one's good," Bobby says from above them. "Breathing and everything. You alright, lad?"

"Fine," Zayn smiles, struggling to lean up on his elbows. "Thanks for the help." 

"Yeah, Bobby," Louis joins in, blinking up at him gratefully, naked shoulders shivering. "Thank you." 

"All in a day's work," Bobby winks in response. He puts a hand on Niall's shoulder as he walks away, then lays Taylor down next to her family. 

The short-haired woman crawls to her immediately, pulling her limp body to herself. Her entire body is shaking in what looks like shock, and her bright hair is stained red; it looks like the top of her ear is missing. It's startling, seeing such a genuine display of love from someone who'd been aiming a crossbow at Harry's head a half hour ago, seeing someone beaten and broken like a mirror image of himself. 

Maybe they're not that different, Harry muses, but Louis's warmth at his side reminds him of what he – all of them – stood to lose. He'd burn the world down for Louis, selfishly, he'd fight a hundred fights worse than this one if it meant that they'd be together at the end of the day, safe, with their family around them and a roof above their heads. He'd hurt, spill blood a hundred times more. 

It's a startling realisation, but not at all unexpected. 

They pick themselves up like broken chess pieces, leaning on each other. Louis shifts back into a wolf almost immediately, bouncing on his paws, and serves as a support to Zayn while he crawls up on his feet. 

Harry feels a strange tug somewhere deep in his chest, like a string pulled too tight. He shifts, too, giving in to what his wolf wants, too weak to resist, but it doesn't go away; his muscles feel like they're on fire, burning with a restless energy he can't quite place. 

Next to him, Liam falls to all fours, and with an unsure glance at them, Zayn hunches too. Harry can't stop himself from staring as the dark fur breaches his skin in unfamiliar places, as the Zayn he knows falls away, is replaced with the Zayn that saved them all. He's enormous as a wolf, towering over Louis by a good foot, but the way he twists his paws in the dirt reminds Harry of a shy child. 

Louis mewls playfully, nudging his nose into Zayn's neck. They seamlessly fall into formation around him, shielding him and keeping him in check. From his place by the wolf's side, Harry watches Zayn's gait grow more certain with every step they take. Niall walks in the back, closing them in, and the occasional brush of his bow’s limb against Harry's fur feels incredibly reassuring. 

To the relief of them all, the house seems to be perfectly fine. The back wall has a new, tall smoke stain shooting sharply upwards like the tip of an arrow, and a few of the planks in the railing are creaking sadly in the wind, broken in half, but – it's their home. Harry has fixed it up from much, much worse. 

It's not a wonder, really, that they've all forgotten, but later on, Harry will still blame himself. It had been obvious in the tight pull in his chest, but he'd been too overjoyed, too relieved to notice. 

As it is, as soon as they round the back garden and walk to the front of the house, Louis stops and growls. His ears dance on top of his head, nose quivering, and he plants his hind legs in the dirt, uneasy. When Liam whines inquisitively, he shuts him down with a yip, and when he sneaks forward, one look is all it takes to forbid them from following. 

Naturally, Niall doesn't listen, walking forward slow and quiet. Harry does feel the weight of Louis's order on him, like an invisible anchor tying him down, but the concern wins over, and he follows right on Niall's heels. Liam and Zayn whine warningly behind them, full of concern. 

_Sorry_ , Harry thinks, and means it. He doesn't want to worry them, knows that he'd be worried sick if one of them did what he's doing, but it's _Louis_. He can't not follow. 

Greg comes fast like a flash of lightning, in a flurry of rage and saliva and his familiar brand of madness. The shaft of the arrow is still sticking out of his body sickly, broken in the middle and swinging back and forth. It doesn't seem to hinder him as he takes Louis down and tumbles with him to the side, unearthing wildflowers and grass. 

Niall shifts his stance immediately, but it's obvious there's nothing he can do. The two wolves are woven together, one limb across another, mouths wide open and teeth bared. The looks on their faces are almost human; Harry recognises Greg's unsightly sneer like an old friend. 

He doesn't wait, this time. He doesn't hold back and watch to see it play out.

The dirt crumbles underneath his feet, and the sound of Niall calling after him falls away. He pushes his muscles to the limit, tired and aching as they are, and sinks his claws straight into Greg's nape. The bigger wolf's howl of pain pierces the air, forceful like a punch, and warm blood mats Harry's fur together. It's satisfying, almost, with the memory of Greg's own claws still burned fresh in Harry's skin. They tumble and fall together, all soft fur and sharp edges, opening wounds in each other's skin. 

Behind them, Louis gets to his feet, wobbly. Harry freezes for a split second, just a moment to catch his eyes and make sure he's okay, and it costs him. 

Greg uses his weight and size to his advantage, at home in his wolf in a way Harry still hasn't quite achieved. He kicks his hind legs into the air, upsetting Harry's balance, freeing himself from the grip of Harry's claws, and flips them over. Harry lands hard on his back; the air leaves his lungs in a rush. 

Greg's teeth, long and lethal and coated in foamy saliva, are right in front of Harry's face. The wolf's breath smells like blood, mostly, so repulsive it has Harry's stomach doing somersaults. He tries weakly to wiggle his way out, slip his smaller limbs through the cracks in Greg's defence, but he's shut down immediately by a snarl so loud it rumbles in his own chest. Greg's eyes are glowing red, and the familiar feeling of wanting to submit washes over Harry like icy water. No, he thinks, if it's the last thing he does. He's not going to die being Greg's. 

As expected, at the sight of Harry's defiant expression, Greg jerks violently, growls, and closes his teeth around Harry's neck. 

He doesn't quite pierce the skin, or maybe Harry is too numb with fear and too exhausted by emotion to feel anything else. The Alpha's teeth are pressed tight against his throat, though, barely allowing Harry room to breathe. For a minute, neither of them moves. Harry doesn't know what they're waiting for. 

As he lies there, with a million pebbles and sticks poking him in the back, a hair's breadth away from being bitten open, he has time to take in his surroundings again. He doesn't even need to hear the creak of a bowstring to tell Niall's standing close by with an arrow at the ready, and judging by the wild mix of scents, everyone else has caught up with them in silence. Louis is the most prevalent one, the one that Harry seeks out, trying to offer some comfort, reassurance, anything to soothe the wild mess of anger and fear and madness clinging to Louis's usual scent. 

Greg is growling, rumbling like he's about to fall apart, and with the next half-breath Harry releases, he realises that Greg doesn't _want_ to kill him; he's completely frozen, holding still and careful, even as his teeth scrape against his scab on Harry's nape. It's Louis he came here after, and the others.

Just as Harry starts devising a plan, testing the mobility of his limbs spread out underneath Greg, twitching and wiggling as much as he can, he sees the shadow of Louis stepping forward. They've been going in circles all this time, Louis and Greg, a mad push and pull, and Harry's chest flutters with hope at Louis finally challenging him, showing him that his place is not here, perhaps never has been, except.   When Harry strains his eyes all the way to the left, just enough for Louis's fur to brush his vision comfortingly, he's not standing like he owns the territory, like he's the leader of the pack, the way he should. His stance, the sharp slope of his neck, his head tilted downwards – he's submitting. It looks wrong on him, as wrong as the blood flaked and dried in his fur like bizarre war paint. Harry's breath catches, and his heart takes off so fast he feels breathless with it for a second. He _knows_ Louis, knows that this can't be what it looks like. It can’t be, but.

Greg wants to settle a grudge he has no right to hold. Harry knows Louis, and he knows that he won't put the rest of them in danger if he feels responsible. 

The moment Greg lets him up, Harry is on all fours, leaping towards Louis with all he has and standing right at his side. He ignores the unspoken etiquette of wolf fights, ignores the pull of his Alpha and Louis's disapproving gaze. If this fight is what costs him life in the end, he'll be damned if he goes without a taste of blood and justice. 

He knows he's wild and exhausted, giving in to the wolf's thoughts. But when he looks at Greg, at the light and self-assured way he dances his way towards them, like everything's already won, he's not so sure his wolf is wrong. 

Louis is shaking, but he doesn't raise his head. He smells like spring, and himself, and sadness. 

All of their breaths hitch collectively, late morning air clearing up, when Greg closes the distance, bares his teeth. He looks strangely gentle when he slides them over Louis's neck, just below where his jaw ends, flattening his fur. They're both breathing in bright puffs of fog, clouding them, but Harry can tell that Greg's jaw is still wide open. Louis has leeway, he has room to take Greg by surprise, but he doesn't do anything. 

As Harry drags his eyes over the defeated slump of Louis's back, his tail tucked in between his legs, he thinks he's somewhere on the edge of understanding. _I carry it with me everywhere, and I always will_ , Louis had told him in the park. It's only now that Harry gets it. 

"Louis," Niall whispers behind them somewhere, clothes rustling. Harry finds himself in the restlessness of his voice – he feels it too, short little bursts of electricity in his muscles, like his body wants to go against his will and rid Louis of the danger. He stills it, for once, doesn't delay whatever has to happen. There's a plan; there _has_ to be. 

Which is why, when Greg pulls back suddenly, taking a step away and almost getting tangled in his own feet, Harry sways in place with disbelief. Louis blinks, surprised, as Greg falls back on his haunches, sits down like a dog would, shaking his head. It's only now that Harry notices the tremble in his shoulders, the stiffness with which he carries his tail as he twists it every which way underneath his body.

Harry's eyes fall to Greg's injury, almost forgotten, to the broken shaft of an arrow still rubbing against the wolf's elbow, dark red fletching nestled underneath his dew claw. The liquid still trickling out of the wound, sticking his fur together, is dark; too dark to be blood. It’s the stench, suddenly rising into Harry’s nose, that gives it away.

He raises questioning eyes to Niall, who seems to realise at the same time. 

"Shit," he curses, hand falling back over his shoulder to pull an arrow out of his quiver. It looks plain, made of shiny material like every arrow Harry has seen in this fight. The fletching carries Niall’s colours - green, white and orange. 

He moves forward immediately, dropping the arrow. Greg leans forward, eyes just this side of wild, and growls, stopping him. 

Nobody moves. Harry's mind is spinning, though he has to fight through the haze of the wolf's simplistic thoughts. Greg has had a wolfsbane-laced arrow lodged underneath his front leg for what's probably close to an hour, judging by the sun that's now bearing down on them, making their sweaty fur steam. It's his left leg, too, as close to his heart as it could get. Harry knows, somehow, exactly what is going to happen. 

To their right, Bobby walks out from behind the house with a phone pressed to his ear, and stops in his tracks when he sees them. His hand flies to his belt automatically. 

Greg whines, high and loud, aimed right at Louis. It's not a threat, and Harry feels a little like he's being released from the hold of his red, red eyes. He steps back, tugging gently on Niall's hand until he does the same. 

Louis steps forward, responds in kind, and it's the most vulnerable sound Harry has ever heard him make. He can't quite tell what they're saying, what it is they're trying to communicate, and it's probably for the best; he already feels like he's intruding, like despite the overwhelming desire to be close to Louis, soothe him, protect him, this is not something he was ever meant to see. 

Zayn lays his head between Harry's shoulder blades, quiet as he watches the scene unfold in front of them. The warm bursts of his breath against Harry's neck calm him down like magic. 

Louis closes the distance between them, pushing his forehead against Greg's shoulder when he wobbles. It's obvious, now, how much pain the bigger wolf is in. His eyes, red as they are, are misted over, and blood is trickling out of his nose. 

Harry is grateful for the numbness his wolf provides him. He'd wanted to hurt, kill him, defeat his own Alpha not ten minutes ago, but those feelings are gone now. As he watches Louis lick slowly at Greg's face, walk around him and help him stay upright with eyes infinitely sad, there's something dark and shaky deep inside his chest, clouding all of his human thoughts, like regret. So many things could have been, in a different life. 

Bobby clears his throat, apprehensive. Greg scrambles to his feet with what looks like the last of his strength, standing on quaking legs. He butts his head against's Louis's softly, licks his nose, then takes a step back and barks at Bobby. And Harry—Harry understands. 

It seems like everything happens in slow motion. Louis whines, low and pitiful, and turns away; Bobby cocks his gun, and his grip only shakes for a second. The bullet is overwhelmingly loud in the silence of the forest, whistles when Harry listens for it and tries to track its way through the air, but it buries itself in Greg's chest quietly, almost gently. The big wolf shudders, suddenly looking very small, and slumps to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. He's still breathing, fast and ragged and loud, and even manages a growl in Louis's direction. Harry, inexplicably, feels hollow. 

Louis turns around and makes his way back to Greg's body. Harry can smell the war of emotions raging beneath his skin, and he aches with how much he wants to shield Louis from all this hurt. 

Greg huffs, shallow and pained, and when Harry strains his ears, the slowing cadence of his heartbeat is painfully loud. Louis is looking at him with his head bowed and ears drooping, gentle when he puts his paw on Greg's neck. Harry thinks that if he were human, he'd probably be stroking him, treading his fingers through Greg's fur, trying to take away the pain. 

Harry stops breathing when Greg, with the last of his strength, tilts his head as far back as he can. Louis's paw slips, right over where his pulse is slowly dying out, and Harry can’t _think_.

"Louis," Niall says, and it's full of gentleness like Harry's never heard before. "Louis, go on. Please." 

Harry sees Louis's breath of panic, and desperately, he whines. They've only got seconds, and then the chance is gone, and Louis – he deserves this. This _belongs_ to him.

Louis looks up at Harry, blue eyes bright. Harry tries to convey everything he's thinking about in that one look, tell Louis he loves him any way he can, tell him that he's not selfish for wanting this. 

Greg's next breath rattles around beneath his ribs, beating fast like moth wings, and Harry knows it's his last one. Louis makes an aborted sound, something between a howl and a bark, and swings. 

His claws sink in slow, despite the momentum, coating his fur in blood that's fresh and steaming. Greg huffs, a small sound that could almost pass for a laugh, and closes his eyes. His heart stutters, stops, and the rush of blood in his veins comes to a still. Nobody dares to break the silence that settles. 

Then, slow and shaking from head to toe, Louis steps back. He drags his bloody paw away, looking at it like it's burning, a mark that will never wash away. When he looks up at them – at Harry, his eyes go pale. They're his natural, human colour for a few seconds, then the blue bleeds away, leaving them almost translucent.

The Alpha red is an explosion in his irises. It floods his gaze, and Harry feels finally, blessedly warm. 

It'd been a small, niggling doubt at the back of his mind, that Louis's eyes would be a cold ruby red, cruel and demanding. Instead, they're bright and vibrant, almost strawberry, and all Harry feels when he looks in them is love. 

One by one, they bow their heads to him. Niall grins, even gets down on a knee with a hand to his heart, and next to Harry, Zayn and Liam take half a step forward and look to the ground. Harry's heart sings when he joins them; _finally_ , he thinks, he'll finally get to be Louis's in every sense of the word. 

"You need to go," Bobby says suddenly, and it's like he's shaking them out of a deep sleep. Zayn raises his head, alert, and shifts. Liam does the same, and Harry follows, but Louis – Louis is standing still. 

Behind Harry's back, Niall sprints inside the house, but it barely registers. Harry, stark naked as he is, runs to Louis, his only focal point in this whole mess. He falls to his knees, buries his hands in thick fur and grabs handfuls of it to pull Louis to him, reminiscent of the morning after his first full moon. They've come such a long way since then, and Harry's heart, right in this moment, beats for nothing but the shaking wolf in his arms. 

"We have to go now, love. Come with me, come on," he whispers, running his hands over Louis's back and sides. Beside them, Greg's body slowly turns back into his human form. He looks pale, almost pitiful, but Harry can't help the twinge of gratitude that wraps around the regret deep in his chest. 

They leave him there. Louis finally, finally shifts back, curling into Harry's body warmth as they stumble towards the house, where Niall is throwing out bundles of clothes. 

"Finally," he crows where he spots them, his eyes still gentle where they rake tentatively over Louis's beaten body. He throws them each a wad of clothing, and Harry realises it's his own – shoes, a pair of pants, trousers and a jumper he'd thought he'd lost somewhere in the house weeks ago. Niall only raises an eyebrow in response to his unspoken question, and Harry thinks he should have known. 

Bobby runs over to them breathlessly, stuffing an armful of weapons into a duffel bag. "Hurry, lads," he says, running his eyes over each of them. "These aren't the only Swifts out here, help'll be here soon. Plus, police," he shakes the gun in his hand regretfully, then drops it into the bag. 

"Where do we go?" Liam asks quietly, wrapping his arms around a trembling Zayn. 

Niall runs a hand through his hair, swallowing. He looks out into the forest, eyes alert. "Anyplace you can think of, just get out of here. _Now_." 

"Y-you're not going?" Louis speaks for the first time, small. Niall smiles at him and shakes his head. 

"Gotta take care of stuff here. I'll be fine, Louis, and so will you, okay?"

Louis nods mutely, breathing out into the fabric of Harry's jumper. 

Suddenly, looking behind them at Greg's lifeless body, Harry gets an idea. "I know where we can go."   Everybody turns to him. "Is it far enough?" Niall asks, nervously kicking fallen leaves off the porch stairs. 

"Yeah," Harry looks at Liam, at Zayn, squeezes Louis around the shoulders. "Yeah. We'll be safe there, I promise." 

Zayn's eyes spark and turn gold. The trust in his them is implicit. 

"Lou?" Harry asks, because Louis is the leader now. It's instinct. 

Louis nods, soft hair brushing Harry's jaw. "You know I trust you." 

Harry catches Niall's gaze, mouths a _thank you_ and desperately tries to ignore the voice in the back of his mind saying that this is goodbye. His eyes sting, but he resolutely takes Louis's hand, revels in the way Louis's fingers dig into the back of his palm. 

"Bye, Ni," says Zayn, and Niall waves at them through what looks suspiciously like tears. 

"Take care of yourselves. I'll call when it's safe again." 

After that, they're off. They jog away from the clearing into the cover of the trees, sticking close together. Harry feels small and cold and incomplete when it's just the four of them, but he keeps walking, setting the pace. 

They're almost out of the forest when they catch the sound of the sirens. It echoes underneath the canopy of leaves, eerie and reminiscent of howls over all that distance. They're too far to make out any voices, but Harry knows, with all his being, that if somebody can handle this, it's Niall and his family. They need to get themselves somewhere safe – they need to get _Louis_ somewhere safe, let him breathe and calm down. 

Harry pulls his shaking body closer, and hopes with all he has that when he wakes up tomorrow, all this will be behind them.

*

"We need to clean up," Liam announces once they've left the ticket window, with the cashier's eyes still in their backs. Harry rolls up what's left of the wad of notes he'd found in the pocket of his trousers, and thinks they maybe should've used the machines.

Once they find the closest bathroom, it's blessedly empty, tiled and shiny and smelling overwhelmingly of citrus cleaning product. 

Next to Harry, Louis takes a shaky breath. Harry realises this might actually be the first time he'd heard him breathe since they left the shadow of the forest and stepped into the midday sun. 

"Okay?" he asks quietly. It doesn't really make sense for him to be quiet, seeing as all four of them can hear things far beyond the walls of this room, but. There's something intimate about it, something that Harry thinks Louis needs right now. 

Louis's eyes are far away when he looks up. "Fine, Pup. Don't worry." Which, naturally, only serves to worry Harry more. 

Liam and Zayn move aside to let them to the basins first. Harry checks over his hands and forearms, splashes cool water over his sweaty, dirty forehead. He's in pretty good shape, considering, probably alright to be out in public without alarming people. Next to him, Louis is staring at the stream of water shooting from the tap, his bloody hand hidden in his pocket. 

Harry bites his lip. Stops the water in his basin. Breathes in, out. "Need any help?" he asks, and he's not sure why he's bothering to feign casual. 

Louis closes his eyes, tight enough that the crinkles come out. He's shaking, but his voice is clear when he speaks, just for Harry, "Please." 

So Harry helps. He takes one arm, then the other, rolling Louis's sleeves up to his elbows. His skin looks pale and washed out in the blue bathroom light, littered with bright red cuts and scrapes. They seem to be healing torturously slow. 

He runs the water again, checking the temperature, and takes Louis's left hand first. The blood on it is dry and dark brown now, broken into thousands of small segments along the wrinkles of Louis's palms. It reaches almost halfway up his forearm, sits dark and packed underneath his fingernails. Harry is reminded of when it was fresh, bright red where it shot out from underneath Louis's claws. It makes his mind a little cloudy, but he knows they're safe now. It's over. 

Louis hisses when the water makes contact with his skin. Harry works as quickly as he can, gentle over Louis's knuckles and the soft skin of his palm. The evidence disappears down the drain in seconds. Foolishly, Harry hopes it'll help. 

He washes the cuts on Louis's forearms then, running his fingers in circles, then moves on to the other arm. He tries to both clean Louis's skin and get his muscles loosened up, hoping to relieve some of Louis's tension. 

Finally, he wets a paper towel and tilts Louis's face up by the chin. Louis goes willingly, but he closes his eyes, effectively shutting Harry out. Harry sighs, lets go of Louis's chin to run a finger across his brows instead, and down the slope of his nose the way that always makes him giggle. 

It works, and Harry's gaze meets Louis's like tidal waves crashing. He sees the turmoil in them, sees the faint red ring around the edge of his irises, and he can only think of one thing to say, the one thing that won't be a lie. 

"I love you," he whispers, and kisses Louis on the forehead. It smooths out underneath his lips as Louis lets out a small breath, and over his shoulder, Zayn drops his gaze to the ground and leans back against the door. There's a small smile playing around the edges of his mouth. 

Harry finishes up quickly, rubs a fleck of dirt off Louis's cheek and pulls him away, gentle. Louis curls into him now, pliant and softer than before. They watch Liam make faces at them in the mirror and Zayn flicking water at him, and Harry hides his shaky grin in Louis's hair. 

Just as they step out of the room, their train is being announced. Harry holds the door for Louis, getting ready to run, but even as Liam and Zayn disappear around the corner, Louis stops and puts a hand on Harry's chest. 

Harry looks down at him, bemused. "Lou, what—" 

Louis leans up and kisses him, warm and firm and gentle. His hand snakes up to Harry's cheek, holding him in place, and when he pulls away, there's a hint of a smile in his eyes. 

"Let's go," he says, and takes Harry's hand. Harry ignores the outraged old lady shrieking at them as they tear out of the bathroom doorway, dodging people and jumping over stray luggage as they run faster than humanly possible. 

They make it to the train just in time, and Harry feels alive with the song of rushing blood in his veins.

*

"I've got to do it now."

"Are you trying to tell me you didn't even _check with her_?" 

"Didn't exactly have time, Liam," Harry tells him grumpily, trying to unlock his phone. It had been lodged deep in his trouser pocket as well, looking a little worse for wear with a crack in the screen, but it works; Louis and Zayn have found theirs as well. Harry thinks that Niall is a genius. 

He sighs, finally managing to type in his passcode and watching as the screen lights up. The little green icon is staring at him dauntingly. 

"Harry." 

"Alright, alright, I'm calling! Bloody hell," he turns his shoulder to Liam, curling up in his seat. He thanks their lucky starts they're alone in the compartment. 

They all listen to the ring breathlessly, countryside rushing past behind the window forgotten. It beeps once, twice—

"Hello?" mum says, and Harry instantly feels calm. 

"Mum, hey. Hi. It's, um. it's me." 

Zayn stifles a laugh in the sleeve of his jumper. Harry kicks him. 

"Hey, baby," she says, wobbly as the reception wavers. "How are you?" The concern is palpable in her voice, and Harry is a terrible son. 

"I'm good, Mum, no worries. I was actually wondering…"

 "What is it?"

"Well, uh. I sort of might be on my way home right now?" He can hear the murmur of the TV in the background, and Robin shouting something. There's probably a footie match on – Harry thinks he should ask Louis when he hangs up. 

"Oh, Harry!" she squeals. "That's wonderful! Wait, you're not in trouble, are you?" 

"Um. Not exactly." 

"Harry Edward—"

"I'm bringing some friends with me," he rushes out before she can finish, shuddering with the ghost of every bad childhood memory beginning with his mum's shout of his full name. "They're—I told you about them, do you remember? The ones who helped me with my, um. Furry problem." 

Her voice is soft when she answers. "I remember." Then, "Is Louis coming too?" 

Harry flushes violently. Louis is dozing on the next seat with his eyes closed, but his eyebrows climb higher inquiringly. Opposite them, Liam and Zayn snort in unison.

God, he hadn't even told her he's with Louis yes. He doesn't think he'll have to now – she's always seen right through him, and if she notices the way Harry acts around him for longer than a second, she'll know exactly what's going on. "Yes, he's coming," is what he says into the mobile. "There's been a—we need a place to stay for a little while. I'll tell you about it when we get there, promise." 

She sighs. "Okay, baby, as long as you're safe. I'll get some mattresses out." 

Harry has to blink back his sudden swell of emotions. He's fairly certain he has the best mum in the world, actually, and every time he talks to her these days, she seems to prove him right. 

"Thanks, Mum. We'll be there in a couple of hours, love you." 

"Love you too, Harry. Be careful," and she hangs up. 

Harry pockets his phone and looks at the compartment at large. 

"That went well," Zayn says, smirking. "Now, what's this about Louis?" 

Harry groans and pulls his hood over his head. He refuses to have this conversation. 

"Really though, does she know?" Liam asks with genuine curiosity, the side of his face squeaking as it slides down the damp window. 

"She doesn't," Harry sighs, put-upon. "But I waxed poetic about Louis right after I told her I got bitten, and I announced I'm in love with a guy over the dinner table at Christmas, so she's probably put two and two together." 

Zayn bursts out laughing, unexpected and delightful. Harry grins back at him, but his cheeks burn.

There's movement next to him, familiar hands sliding the hood off his head. 

"For everybody's information," says Louis, "I am now going to sit in Harry's lap. None of you are allowed to complain." 

Zayn laughs harder, folding into himself until he's lying on his side across two seats, kicking his legs like a child. Harry looks at Louis, who's almost too close to focus on, and uncrosses his legs. Louis’s expression is gentle; he smiles automatically in response.

Louis does actually climb into Harry's lap, all small hands in places they don't necessarily need to go. He settles against Harry's chest with a content sigh, curling his legs up and tangling his fingers in Harry's jumper. He looks so _small_ , almost like a child, and Harry struggles to remember a time he'd seen him like this when it wasn't just the two of them. 

Harry welcomes the feeling of warmth spreading to his fingertips. He wraps his arms around Louis, squeezing one of Louis's hands in his. Louis squeezes back just a little too tight.

They doze off somewhere between Rugby and Tamworth.

*

Holmes Chapel is, as always, eerily quiet as they turn into Harry's street. They're walking slow, taking up the whole sidewalk, but there's nobody there to mind.

"Which one is it?" asks Zayn, breathing warm air into his sleeves against the cold. Harry points at where their roof is just peeking out with his free hand – the other is cradled safely in Louis's fingers. Harry is well aware that everyone on this street knows him by name, hell, he's dated some of their daughters, but he couldn't care less for who sees them and spreads the gossip. Louis is finally animated, at least resembling his normal self, and Harry is going to do everything in his power to make it stay that way. 

Mum is already waiting for them in the open door, welcoming everyone with soft hellos and warm hugs. Liam and Zayn are both incredibly polite and incredibly awkward, though Louis charms her before they've even stepped foot inside. He shakes her hand properly, tells her what a pleasure it is to meet her, keeping his face open and holding himself ramrod straight. Harry is a little giddy, a little sad and a lot in love – he can tell how exhausted Louis is, despite just having napped for an hour. He wouldn't have put on a polite face if he didn't want to. 

Thankfully, they're spared interrogations, though Harry can tell it's coming as soon as they're all capable of staying upright. As it is, they're sent upstairs with mugs of steaming black tea and a trayful of fresh scones, and Zayn calls mum a saint before he can think about it. 

Harry's room smells like nostalgia, and the floor is covered in mattresses, complete with sheets and pillows and blankets. 

"So this is where little Harry grew up," Zayn says as he makes his way through his third scone, laying face-up on Harry's childhood bed. 

"Yup. Went through the teenage angst and the A level madness and furious wanks over my drama teacher all in this bed." 

Louis, from his obviously comfortable perch in a nest made of Harry's pillows, rumbles deep in his chest. 

"I didn't really wank over my drama teacher," he admits after a moment of silence, sipping on his tea contemplatively. “A bit creepy, that. Not that she wasn't fit." 

Louis gives him the finger. 

Once they've polished off the food and complained to each other about how hungry they still are, they finally let the events of the day wear them down, slumping into fresh sheets. Zayn automatically moves off of Harry's incredibly soft bed, pulling Liam with him, and Harry is grateful for his pretty face and sparkling eyes and general lovely existence. He gets to share with just a sleep-warm Louis and everything running through his head. He's biting his lip in thought as he fluffs up their pillows and pulls a blanket over them, when he pulls Louis to him until he's settled safely on Harry's chest, even as he listens to everyone fall asleep one by one. He's lulled and calm, blinking into the afternoon sun sluggishly, but he can't stop thinking about Niall and Bobby and Greg's lifeless body and the blood they've spilled. It feels like days ago now, but the grime sticking to him reminds him that it's barely been hours. 

He does fall asleep at some point, letting his body free fall and trying to push the worry out of his mind, but it doesn't last long. Red eyes – ruby red, dark, cruel eyes – seem to be painted on the back of his eyelids, and when he opens them, he's plunged into more darkness. Everything is stained red, splashed all around him in patterns like he's standing in a room with invisible walls, spilling around his feet, and there's a faraway, pounding echo of someone calling his name—

"Harry." 

Finally, when he opens his eyes, he's met with the familiar sight of his dark blue ceiling. The colour is soothing, like waves of water putting out red fire. 

It's Louis that woke him up, barely lifting his head off Harry's chest, looking ruffled and sleepy and slightly alarmed. "Your heart's beating so fast," he says, pressing a calming palm into Harry's shirt. 

Harry releases a breath he didn't realise he was holding and shakes out his limbs, just to make sure he can move them all. 

"Is it nightmares again?" 

Harry looks at him, feels his lips quirk up into an involuntary smile. They've gone through many a night like this, still do from time to time when Harry wakes up thinking he's had his lungs pierced by an arrow. 

"Little bit," he answers, raspy. He tangles his hand in the familiar nest of Louis's hair. "I'm okay now." 

Louis frowns disapprovingly, pressing his lips against Harry's temple, silky soft. "I hate that you can't get rid of them." 

"I've got you to help," Harry says, flexing his other arm to bring Louis as close as he possibly can. Louis presses a breathless _I love you_ into his neck, digs his fingers into Harry's hip and neck until Harry feels safe, cradled; protected. 

"Wanna talk about it?" he rasps ten minutes later, after Harry's tried and failed to close his eyes for more than a second, and he sounds wide awake. 

"I don't—" but the thing is, he really, really does. He's come to depend on Louis so much, love him so much, and there's no one he'd rather talk to about this. Harry rarely gets self-conscious, but this still feels like he's about to split his chest open and confess his darkest secrets.

Mostly, he doesn't want to _bother_ Louis, not right now. He still seems so disoriented, sluggish and heavy-lidded, and his smiles don't reach anywhere near his eyes. 

"Please," says Louis. "You're thinking way too loud, how about you get that out in the open, hm?" He nudges Harry's nose with his, so, so sweet. 

"It's not… It can wait." 

"Haz," Louis runs light fingers over his eyelids. For once, Harry only sees black. 

Harry sighs, a long breath through his nose. He revels in Louis's fingers touching him; it feels like they haven't had time to do this properly yet, just lay and enjoy each other and do nothing all day in clothes they've nicked from one another – they've been on constant alert, worried and distracted and clinging to each other just this side of desperate. 

When all this is over, when they're safe, Harry thinks he's going to sweep Louis up and lock them in the bedroom. The thought makes him smile, makes the imminent darkness in his chest retreat just a little. 

"It was, um. Red."

"Red?" Louis's fingers stop, stilling on the slope of Harry's nose. Harry thinks he can tell what Louis is thinking. 

"Red eyes," he says eventually. He feels Louis freeze and pull away, retreat to his half of the bed as he breathes loudly, but he refuses to let him. "His, Louis, not yours. They were his, and I felt like something was choking me, like he was making me put my own claws against my throat—"

"Harry," Louis looks at him desperately. 

"How are you feeling?" Harry interrupts him. 

"I don't know. I don't know, Haz, you saw what happened, I…" he's shaking, trembling apart right underneath Harry's hands, and he tries desperately to hold him together. "I feel so powerful. Like, too much. I don't know if I want this," and the gaze he turns on Harry is so vulnerable it breaks his heart right in two. 

"You were made for this, Lou," Harry tells him softly, rubbing a finger across his brow, chasing the strawberry red sparks in Louis's irises. "This has belonged to you since day one, and you'll make an amazing Alpha. I bowed to you, back there, we all did, and I promise you I've never meant anything more in my life." 

Louis's eyes shimmer, slowly flooding with red. It's the most beautiful thing Harry has ever seen. 

"I'm yours. I love you, and I'm yours, and I…," he takes a breath. "And I'm going to spend the rest of my life showing you that." 

Louis gulps. Harry finds it hard to breathe for a moment, thinking to how reckless he's being, but he _feels_ it. Everything is so overwhelmingly right when he's with Louis, like the world falls into place. Harry never wants to be anywhere else. 

"And you," he adds for good measure, thumbing at the corner of Louis's eye, "are going to be an amazing leader."

At the foot of the bed, Zayn snuffles and yips in his sleep. Louis looks like he can't help the smile taking over his face, even as he holds Harry's gaze and blinks furiously. His eyes are red and absolutely brilliant. 

"I'm gonna hold you to that," he says, raspy and soft. "And I think…I think I'm going to need a bit of help coming to terms with this, yeah?"

Harry pets his hair as lovingly as he can manage. He's surprised to see his hand is shaking. 

"So if you could, you know. Stick around like you've been so far. You make it a lot easier." 

Harry drops his gaze, face suddenly burning. "I'm the reason any of this happened in the first place, you know." 

"Don't be an idiot," says Louis, pulling him in fiercely and kissing him on the forehead. "The reason this happened is several psychopathic minds with a grudge meeting and plotting for _years_. Now that I think about it, it really wasn't that good a plan. Don't think they quite counted on you stealing my heart so thoroughly." 

Harry bursts into snotty giggles, chortling. "I love you," he says again in a small voice. 

"Love you too, Pup," says Louis, and his voice sounds so much lighter, so much happier, so much more like the Louis Harry knows. "Want to sleep a little more?"

*

"So," mum says, sipping tea thoughtfully. "Werewolf hunters."

Harry hides his face in his hands, slightly mortified. 

"We really don't think they're a threat anymore," says Louis, placating, all the while trying to pry Harry's hands away.

"Wasn't this the second time they tried to kill you?" 

"Um," Louis coughs. "Yes, technically. But our friend Niall and his family are taking care of it right now, and they're really good at what they do, so." 

Harry peeks at his mum from between his fingers. She's a little pale, her forehead creased contemplatively, but she seems to be holding up just fine. To tell the truth, all credit for that probably goes to Louis – he's the one who picked up the thread of conversation when Harry got iffy, using his calming voice and smiling and managing to keep Harry anchored here the entire time through soft touches. 

"What is it that they do, then?" Anne asks, curious. 

"They're, uh. They're werewolf hunters, too. The good kind." 

"The good kind?" 

"They look out for us. Make sure we don't get into too much trouble," Louis replies with a smile. 

Harry straightens up slowly, drops his hands and blinks the onslaught of light out of his eyes. It's menacingly dark in the room with the blinds shut, but he feels safer than he has in weeks, here in his childhood home. 

"I feel like what you've just told me about is the definition of trouble," she frowns. "I just want to make sure my son is safe, you understand."

" _Mum_." 

She purses her lips at him, a familiar face that has Harry cowering like he's five again. "Harry." 

"Haz, please. It's okay," Louis interjects, lacing their fingers together under the table. Then, he grins. "I wouldn't just trust virtual strangers to look out for you if you need it, either." 

Harry rolls his eyes, but he's still tingly and warm and very much in love with the ridiculous, ridiculous enigma that is Louis Tomlinson. "I don't. I'm a legal adult with superhuman powers, I can take care of myself." 

"Okay," Louis says. He's still grinning, and he leans closer for a moment, like he wants to kiss Harry, but seems to realise where they are and pull back. It's a shame, really, because Harry would very much like to kiss him right about now. 

Mum clears her throat. 

"I was – am – safe, Mum, I promise. We all look out for each other, they'd never let anything bad happen to me." 

"You had blood down your neck when you got here," she points out. Harry has to contemplate his answer for a while.

"We all look out for each other," he repeats, in the end. "I was protecting my pack." 

Louis breathes in through his nose and squeezes Harry's hand tight. It occurs to Harry that this is the first time he'd said the word out loud, which seems so, so strange. He's been thinking it for so long, has felt like he belongs for so long. 

He rubs his thumb across the back of Louis's palm, reassuring, and watches a whole array of emotions play out on his mum's face. In the end, she sighs, and reaches across the table to pry his other hand away from his mug and hold it in hers. 

"You know I just worry," she says, gentle.

"I know, Mum. I understand." 

"Good. Call me next time you're off getting yourself into trouble," and she smiles at him, warm and open and looking like home, as always. "Now, I've noticed you gentlemen have been holding hands suspiciously often. Not that I'd want to pry, but…"

"But you're a mum," sighs Harry, barely suppressing a smile. Louis, though, freezes next to him. 

Harry shoots him a look, trying to convey that it's okay with every cell of his being. He's not too sure Louis knows what to expect; he's been all alone since age eighteen, taking on the role of the caretaker and holding everything personal close to his chest. 

Louis is not looking at him – won't look at him, staring at the dark wood of the tabletop. 

"It's okay," Harry tells him quietly, only concerned with calming him down. "We absolutely don't have to if you don't want to, Lou." 

"I do," Louis says, quiet, and his grip on Harry's hand tightens. "Of course I do, don't be daft."  And slowly, like he's trying to convince himself more than anyone else, he raises his head to look Anne in the eye. He's got a smile on, too, small and strained but genuine. 

Mum, for her part, looks taken aback and a little misty-eyed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to—" 

"It's okay," Louis rushes to reassure her. "You have a right to know what goes on in your son's life, and I…" he trails off, breathing in. "I'm prouder of being with him than I am of anything I've ever accomplished. You should know that, too, just so you don't, um. Worry too much." 

Harry's heart grows two sizes right in his chest. 

"I wouldn't have worried before, darling," she tells Louis quietly through a smile, blinking and reaching across the table to take his hand, too. 

"I love him a lot, Mum," Harry says, giving voice to some of the words bubbling up in his throat. Louis laughs, small and private and so, so gentle. He's looking right into Harry's eyes when he says, "I love your son ridiculously, Anne." Harry could kiss him to death right there in the kitchen. 

"Well, I'm very happy for you," she says, still smiling. Harry thinks he's happy for himself, too. 

They say goodnight with silly grins and warm hugs and kisses on the forehead, one each. Louis looks awed when Anne's lips leave his forehead, watches her until she turns to walk up the stairs and blinks at Harry for a good five minutes like he can't believe what just happened. Harry makes a mental note to take him up here more often. 

Upstairs in Harry's room, Zayn and Liam are starfished over all the spare mattresses, sleeping again, and Harry and Louis have to play an impromptu game of the floor is lava to even get to the bed. Once they're there, Harry takes Louis's hand with a grin that's maybe a little too happy, pulls him into the cool sheets and tangles all their limbs together. Then, he closes his eyes and sleeps. 

He's not woken up by a nightmare this time. It's music, something that sounds suspiciously like Free Bird combined with the buzzing of a phone dancing across the nightstand. All of them groan in unison, rubbing their eyes (Louis) and temples (Liam) and covering their heads with pillows (Zayn). 

It takes Harry a while to get his bearings. It has to be morning already, judging by the sunlight that's currently burning a hole in his cheek, but it's not the light that's bothering him. Something about the song is—

"Lads," he sits up violently, rocking the entire bed. Louis grumbles and turns onto his other side, and Harry would love a moment to admire how adorable he is, but there are more pressing matters at hand. 

"Lads! Niall's calling," he yells to the room at large. He scrambles to get to his phone before it stops ringing, and sure enough, Niall's ridiculous grinning face is plastered across the screen, complete with his name and a thousand emojis and the little note that says _incoming_. Harry isn't sure he'd ever seen a better sight. 

The other three are just beginning to sit up with various alarmed expressions on their faces when Harry swipes his thumb across the screen, immediately tapping the speaker icon. 

"Niall?" he asks, and there's breathless silence on both ends of the line. 

Then, "Laaaads!" 

Harry lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, not doing anything to fight his smile. Zayn is blinking rapidly at the foot of the bed, eyes suspiciously shiny. 

"I'd say it's real fucking good to hear you, but you're not saying anything," Niall pipes up again, voice tinny through the speaker but wonderful all the same. Just as Harry thinks he might need a hug, he feels Louis plaster himself all across his back, arms winding around Harry's shoulders and a dry mouth pressing to his cheek. 

"'S good to hear you too, Niall," says Liam finally, and air finally returns to the room. 

"It's barely been twelve hours, no need for the tears, Li."

"Piss off," says Liam, goodnatured, and he clambers up to join the rest of them on the bed. 

They move closer together, like it's instinct, Zayn and Liam climbing up the mini mountain that is Louis and Harry. They're a proper puppy pile, all warm and smelling of morning breath.

"How you been, then?" 

"Eh," Loius says. "Harry's mum is lovely. Fit, too."

Harry bucks him off. 

Niall cackles for a while through the line, exploding when he hears Louis thud to the ground. 

They move downstairs, sleepy and half-naked. Harry sets the phone in the middle of the table, pushes everyone into chairs and goes about making tea. 

"How's things, then?" asks Louis, finally addressing the elephant in the room. Harry pushes a mug of specially-made Yorkshire into his hands, eyes the empty chairs around the table, and decides to plop himself right into Louis's lap. He's feeling particularly needy this morning, and when Louis spreads his legs slightly and wraps his arm tight around Harry's middle, he's in heaven. It's even worth the shrewd look Zayn sends him across the table. 

Niall sighs in a burst of static. There's a creak and a bang, like a door closing, and then the humming of wind – he's outside. Harry hopes it's on their front porch, in a house that's still standing and still theirs. _The police_ were there, Harry remembers. Christ.

"Well. The fun thing is, the entire Swift clan was taken into custody." 

"What for?" Zayn frowns.

"Where do I start," says Niall, sounding cheerful again. "Illegal possession of firearms, some weird business with their car being unregistered, _and_ apparently they're wanted in seven countries. Tax evasion and dealing drugs and murder and whatnot." 

"What." 

 "Yeah, was surprised meself. I think it's safe to say they're not getting out anytime soon, so. Guess that's over."

A silence settles over them, interrupted only by the humming of wind on Niall's end of the line. Harry can't quite breathe, he thinks, but it's not the heavy weight in his lungs he's grown used to lately. 

He thinks of Taylor, red lipstick and red blood and red eyes, suddenly. Thinks of her locked up somewhere far away, back in America, where she can't touch them again. 

He blinks down at Louis and finds his own expression mirrored right back – something like slack-jawed awe and a bit of hope and a dash of disbelief. Still, when they all exchange glances above the tabletop, Harry thinks the emotion must run through them all at the same time – relief.

It feels like somebody's pulled a boulder off of Harry's chest; like worries he hadn't even known he had just lift off his shoulders and fly away, gone through the window and into the morning breeze. 

Zayn touches an open palm to his chest, where the gash was not too long ago. "Are you sure?" 

Niall's end of the line crackles and whines with the familiar creak of the garden swing. "Let's be honest, they probably know how to get out of there, but they're on a plane someplace over the Atlantic right now. Every news station's got their pictures plastered on the screen 24/7, so. It's going to be a while before they show up again." 

"What about the police?" Louis asks, a little breathless like all of them. Harry, too, feels light enough to fly. "Your dad in trouble?" 

"Nah, please," Niall laughs. "It's all good, they were buddies of his. We worked it out somehow." He sounds the way he usually does, cheerful and wordy and heavily accented, but his tone is just this side of too flat. He's hiding something, Harry thinks, and he wants nothing more than to get over there and hug him and find out what's wrong, in that order.

"Is it safe to come home, then?" Harry asks. "We could be there by afternoon." 

"Please," says Niall quickly. "It's actually really creepy here? Like, I swear to God there's a ghost in the attic, and we've got too many fucking squirrels in this forest. I _hate_ squirrels, Harry." 

"Okay," Harry says, solemn even as his mouth twitches. "We'll have some breakfast, then?" he looks up at the others. Liam is already staring at the fridge in longing. "Yeah, breakfast. I'll look up trains after, we'll be there soon." 

"Good, good. I'll be here wreaking havoc in the library."  

Liam squeaks, and they laugh. Even with Niall's voice tinny through the phone speaker, it sounds just like the weekend mornings Harry would walk up the hill and come wake them all up, make them a proper fry-up and pretend to be annoyed when they threw it all over each other like schoolchildren.

Niall keeps them company as Harry throws together some fruit salad and yoghurt and granola and puts the kettle on for more tea, and he strikes up a lively conversation with Harry's mum when she wakes up and comes downstairs to complain about how much noise they're making. 

Harry eats his breakfast on Louis's lap, spilling things all over both of them and ignoring the looks mum is shooting him from her own chair. Louis is still wrapped around him as much as he can physically manage without the use of his hands, and he's warm and solid against Harry's back. He's laughing again, telling embarrassing stories about Liam with a twinkle in his eye and happy crinkles on his face, and it's all Harry has ever wanted. 

He wiggles and leans back a little more, rubbing his bare back against Louis's shirt and sticking his tongue out at his mother's amused-but-disapproving face. 

They leave with more hugs and yelled greetings and a whole bag of sweets. The sun is shining outside, warming the air of a perfect spring day, and Harry feels alive.

*

By the time they reach the edge of the forest, the sky is just starting to turn orange. They take a break to get their breath back before they go in, bent over at the waist and winded from the long run.

They don't shift when they go in, too tired to race each other like they probably would normally, and instead they walk and watch the forest coming to life after winter. The walk up is one of Harry's favourite parts of coming to stay at the house, and he points out badger dens and clusters of wild strawberries already in bloom. Louis's hand is warm in his; he looks a little like an awed child, like he's seeing everything for the first time. 

It's tranquil and gorgeous, the forest floor criss-crossed with rays of sun, and Harry thinks they should sit on the back porch with some hot chocolate once they get home. 

Except then they reach the crest of the hill. The clearing opens up in front of them, gorgeous and golden-green as always, but the house—

The house is a ruin. 

It's a mess of broken red bricks, the outer coat of paint almost stripped off; one side of it is gaping empty, the walls around it crooked and charred like something's exploded in them, and the windows are broken into sharp shards. The inside looks burnt to a crisp, ashen.

Zayn stops a few steps behind them, completely silent, and Louis makes a desperate little noise of shock. Harry's breath is gone, but he immediately raises his nose to sniff the air. He's going to find whoever did this, he's going to—

"Shit! Shit shit shit, fuck, you're here already!" is how Niall greets them, running, panicked, from the back of the house with Loki on his heels. He's a little harried, with windswept hair and red cheeks, but he doesn't look much different from the Niall that Harry knows; not like someone who's just lost a second home. 

"Ni, what…" Louis starts softly, but doesn't finish. The rest of his sentence gets swallowed along with a desperate gulp of air.

"I'm sorry, shit, I'm sorry. It's not—I was going to—I mean. It's not what it looks like." 

All of Harry's exhaustion slowly trickles back into his bones, chasing away the feeling of walking on air. He watches dispassionately as Niall walks closer, looking them over with big, earnest eyes. 

"What do you mean?" Zayn is the one to ask. He sounds shaky and congested and awful, and he's pinching the bridge of his nose with his claws out. 

"Fuck," Niall swears. "I. Okay. I'm really sorry you had to see this, lads, I didn't mean to—anyway." He takes a deep breath, raises his hand, and—snaps his fingers.

Right in front of them, clear as day and too unbelievable to be a trick of the light, a shower of golden sparks appears on the beaten-down roof. They start flying downwards slowly, a little like snow, and in their wake they leave the house looking like Harry knows it – a little worse for wear, but sturdy and whole. 

The sparks slide down the windowpanes, leaving behind smooth, thick glass, and spill down over the garden, turning the blackened grass green again. The banister on the porch is whole, and the front door back in the hinges; the paint on the walls loses all its burn marks and chips and cracks, and the hole in the side just disappears. 

They turn to Niall almost simultaneously. While Harry does feel relieved and bewildered, mostly, Louis is actually grinning. 

"No way!" he exclaims. Niall, who has mostly been looking at the ground, uncharacteristically shy, looks at him and smiles, but it's a little too weak to hold up for long. 

"Um. Surprise?" he says, fingers twisted together tight. Harry is still looking between him and the house, blinking. 

"You're magic," Liam breathes out with a breathless grin, and he, too, looks suddenly happy. 

_Magic_. Harry looks down at the last sparks dying by the edge of the clearing, disappearing into thin air. Thinks back to the smart snap of Niall's fingers, and. Oh. It does kind of make sense. 

In the meantime, Niall's sat down on the front steps. "I. Yeah, I am." He trails off again, still self-conscious. Harry doesn't care what's caused it – it's so wrong, on Niall, the flushed cheeks and downcast eyes and shuffling feet. Niall rubs his index and middle fingers together, and out of nowhere, a small flame appears in his hand. It's pale, and it flickers and dies within a second. 

Niall sighs. "Is that, like, okay with you?" 

"Ni," Louis frowns, coming to crouch in front of him. "What the hell? We're werewolves. We know magic exists. And that was _so fucking cool_." 

Finally, blessedly, Niall grins. His teeth poke out, and all is right with the world. "Yeah?" 

"Absolutely," Louis nods, and the rest of them echo him. 

Niall throws his arms around Louis's neck, laughing, and they both fall into the grass. "Thought you'd be mad I was lying to you," Harry hears him mumble into Louis's neck. 

It's what finally snaps him out of his daze, how close Niall is to Louis at the moment. It's absolutely bizarre to be jealous, Harry knows, but he can't control what he's feeling. 

He makes his way over to the others quickly, sitting down in the grass like Zayn and Liam have done. 

"Were you? Lying, I mean?" Louis asks, trying to get them up, and, right. There's a conversation happening. 

Niall doesn't answer, though, and slowly pulls himself back. He plops down next to Harry and lets Louis brush himself off before he speaks again. 

"I wasn't," is what he says. "Well, not technically." 

They arrange themselves into a circle, like they're in kindergarten and it's story time. Harry supposes that it kind of is.

 "I've—always known about it, _this_ , but it's never worked until now. Remember all those weird wildflowers that used to grow in the garden, and how the dishes would rattle after the full moon when I came in worried about you all? And, like, I used to accidentally make grass grow in the bathroom as a kid, and I made the cat's tail disappear once, but it's never been something I could control. Until…" he looks up, right at Louis.

"Me?" 

He nods. "When you became Alpha. I _felt_ it, you know? I felt that I was part of a pack for real now, and that's when something broke, I don't know. But I can actually make it do what I want it to, now. At least sometimes I can," and he tries for another flame, but he only gets smoke. 

Looking at it, Harry suddenly remembers something from the fight, from yesterday, though it feels like ages ago. _Your little witch's smokescreen._

 __"It was you," he says, quietly, looking up in wonder. "You were the witch Taylor was talking about. The _magic tricks_ …" 

"Were mine, yeah," Niall lets his eyes fall again, tearing a blade of grass out of the ground. A new one immediately grows in its place, and Niall frowns at his own hand like he doesn't recognise it. "But I didn't know about them, not until she said that." 

"How can you not know about your own spells?" Louis asks, but he's gentle. 

"It's—involuntary. You ever read Harry Potter?"

"Obviously," Zayn says, like he's just been insulted. 

"Well. It's kinda like that. When Harry's mother died for him, or whatever, it created this love shield that protected him from the baddies, so that's. That's what happened with me, basically, except I'm not dead. I just love you lads, so my magic made sure we were all safe and stuff. But, since I can't control it, it broke when Greg trampled through it and found the house. It was invisible before, apparently."

They all stare at him in silence. Louis's eyes shimmer in the afternoon light, and he looks impossibly soft. "So, that first time. That was you as well?" 

"You mean when they burned half of this place down?" he gestures with his hand towards the forest behind them. "I think so. I'm not sure what I did then, though."

Harry shakes his head in wonder, moves closer to Niall to pull him into his side. It's only now that Harry notices, but he does smell a little different, has an earthy quality about his scent that wasn't there before. 

"I still don't know what I'm doing, to be honest. I managed to put up the illusion in the twenty minutes before the cavalry got here yesterday, but that was because I was stressed and stuff. I have no idea how to even, like, start." 

Liam grins at him across the circle, unbothered. "We have a library with over a thousand books. There's got to be something there about magic." 

Niall huffs and wipes his nose surreptitiously into Harry's shoulder. "I suppose. You know I'm shit at reading though, Payno." 

Liam rolls his eyes, joining them to slump into Niall's other side. He pets Niall's hair, still smiling. "I'll look for you," he says, and Harry thinks in his mind he's already between his bookshelves. 

"Thanks," says Niall, looking at each of them in turn. He looks bright and happy; his usual restless energy is already flooding back in, making his fingers twitch and his knees bounce. It's the way Niall should be, and everything slots into place once again. 

"We're a proper pack now, aren't we?" Zayn says, reaching forward until his fingers wrap securely around Niall's ankle. Harry pokes a toe into his forearm, just so he's touching. 

Zayn's question was rhetorical, but when Louis doesn't speak or move or _breathe_ for a little while, they all turn to him with careful looks on their faces. He looks a little pale, no longer golden in the setting sun, and his eyes are changing colours. When he looks up at them, it's with impossible trepidation. 

"You all want to, then?" he asks, and Harry wants to kiss him and smack him at the same time. 

"Louis, _come on_." 

"It's not that easy, Z! I don't know how to be a—a leader, or whatever, now that it's an actual option, I mean... What if you get hurt because of me?" 

Harry respectfully abandons Niall with a pat on the back and stands up to walk the two steps to Louis's side. He plops down right next to him, takes his hand, and wills him to understand what they're all saying. 

"You've been a leader all this time!" Zayn says, a little incredulous and a lot gentle. "We've always listened to you, always followed your lead, and you've never disappointed us in anything. Being pack, with the magic and everything, is all we've wanted for years, and don't you dare think we're going to back out on you now. Packs are built on the members taking care of each other. Isn't that what we do?" 

Louis sighs, breathing out. He closes his eyes and opens them again, and when he does, they're red. Harry lets his own eyes colour in response, watches Zayn and Liam glow back in gold and Niall smiling at them. He feels it, the bond, somehow. It's not a tangible thing, not even a concrete feeling, but it's there in the happy stutter of his heart and the lightness in his bones when he looks at the four of them, thinks _this is family_. 

"Alright," says Louis finally, catching Harry's eye even as he speaks to them all. 

"Yeah?" Harry asks.

"Yeah," and he looks at them, eyes sweeping across the wonky half-circle they've formed. "Let's do this, but, uh. I'm going to need all the help I can get." 

Harry squeezes his hand in reassurance; Niall winks at him, says, "You got it, Tommo!", and the tension breaks. Harry is happy again, all floaty and wonderful, and he barely thinks about it when he throws his head back and howls. 

He hears the rest of them quiet down, then join him. They merge together like they never quite have, Louis's high tone and Liam's rumble and Zayn's little yips, with Niall pretending to howl and randomly shooting colourful sparks out of his fingertips. Loki, too, joins them in his little puppy voice. 

They play a very juvenile game of chase before they go inside, and it ends with muddy trousers and grass-stained shoes. 

Despite Harry's protests and attempts to get to the bathroom, Louis pulls him up the stairs as soon as the door closes behind them. They end up in his bedroom. It's just this side of stuffy with the window closed, and Harry goes and opens it before either of them says anything. 

Finally, when he turns around, Louis is still standing by the door, watching him. 

"What?" Harry asks, frowning, but he's met with a brilliant smile. 

"Nothing," Louis says. "Come here." 

When Harry does, he's pulled sharply forward by the collar of his jumper as Louis crashes his lips against Harry's. Harry squeaks in surprise, but relaxes quickly, drinking in the chapped edges of Louis's mouth. 

He softens the kiss, covers Louis's hands with his and tangles their fingers together to bring them closer. He pulls back a little and purses his lips more, giving Louis's bottom lip a small nip. 

"What's this, then?" he can't help asking, even in the face of Louis's putout frown and pouty, shiny mouth. 

"I've missed you a lot," Louis says softly. Harry wants to point out that they've spent almost a whole two days together, but he doesn't, because he gets it. They've felt so removed from themselves, in these past few weeks, so far apart.

"Well luckily," he trails a hand up Louis's chest and neck, stopping to cup his cheek, "I'm officially pack now. You've got me at your beck and call." 

Louis's forehead creases adorably. "You're not property, Haz. It doesn't work like that, you don't automatically become _mine_. You're free to—you know, whatever. If you want." 

Harry smooths out the wrinkles with his fingers, can't resist dropping a kiss onto the warm skin. "I know that, silly," he says and tries to be reassuring, even though he's choking on happiness a little and he feels like bursting into giggles. "I've also told you this a long time ago." 

And he looks right into Louis's eyes, alight with love and worry. "I'm yours. Not property, maybe, but I'm here whenever you need me to be. I promise." 

Louis kisses him again, and Harry thinks he's maybe trying to hide the way his face crumpled. His lips are soft, though, loving, slotting in-between Harry's perfectly. 

Harry's the one who takes it further, because he _can_ now, and brings his tongue out to play. Louis snorts when Harry licks at his bottom lip, but he does take Harry's face into his hands and open wider to let him in. 

Slowly, Harry backs him up against the door. Louis clutches him tighter, wrapping an arm around him, over his shoulder almost all the way between his shoulder blades, pulling Harry in until he's slumped forward and the two of them press tight together. Louis's tongue is hot and insistent, in every corner of Harry's mouth at once. 

He breathes out through his nose and squeezes Louis's hip. The button of Louis's jeans is pressing into Harry's stomach, creating a delicious illusion that makes Harry want more. He tangles his other hand in Louis's hair, pulling just the smallest bit, and leans away to catch his breath. 

Louis looks at him wide-eyed, with an inviting flush along his cheekbones, and his hands never stop wandering Harry's body. He digs his fingers into Harry's back, his bicep, his hip, until Harry feels his hand slide comfortably into his back pocket and _squeeze_. 

He blinks at Louis, startled, and an insistent warmth pools in his belly at the look in Louis's eyes. 

"Lou," he rasps, and has to hold himself up on buckling knees when Louis leans over to suck on his neck.

"Hmm?" he hums, grinning into Harry's skin and playing innocent. Harry pulls his face back and kisses him, tongue-first, wet and hot and so, so good. When he pulls away, his own mouth feels slick from spit, and every time Louis's breath fans out across Harry's lips, he shivers. 

"Fuck," Harry says eloquently, settling a hand in the sinful dip of Louis's back. "Can we…" 

Louis looks up, the predatory look in his eyes laced with gentleness. He squeezes Harry's arse again with a cheeky smile, but his other hand comes up to run through Harry's hair and rub gentle circles on his cheeks. "Fuck yeah we can," he says, pulls Harry closer until they're touching all the way down to their shins. "If you want," he adds, and Harry wants to feel him everywhere. 

Instead of the incredulous _duh_ he feels like saying, he dives into Louis's lips again like a starving man. He rolls his hips this time, a gentle rocking motion that has Louis biting at his lip sharply and rocking back, all tantalising curves. He wants to see more, wants to feel Louis's bare, sweaty chest pressed against his, and when he goes for the hem of Louis's shirt, he's met with no resistance. He takes his own jumper off, too, which makes Louis chuckle, but when they look back at each other, every sound suddenly dies in their throats. 

Louis is fucking gorgeous, is the thing, and Harry wants to latch himself on every square inch of that bare, golden skin, except his mouth has gone dry. 

Louis touches his side, fingers reverent over the scar that sits, pale white and raised, above Harry's hip. There's something like desperation in his eyes, a sharp contrast to the want from a few seconds ago.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, barely a whisper. 

"Lou." 

"Tell me if it hurts," he goes on, undeterred. "I'll fix it." 

Harry laces their fingers together on his own hip. "Louis, look at me." 

He does; he looks vulnerable, small, and Harry sees the same fear he feels whenever he remembers that morning mirrored in his eyes. 

"It doesn't hurt," Harry says. "It doesn't, yeah? It's fine. I barely remember it's there." 

It's a lie, and they both know it. Louis seems appeased, though, squeezing Harry's hand and blinking slowly, like he's seeing him for the first time. 

There's nothing chaste about it when they crash back together, all messy spit and forceful tongue and colliding teeth, but it's the best thing Harry has ever felt. He moans out loud when Louis takes one of his hands and starts pulling him to the bed without breaking the kiss, stopping every few steps to press himself against Harry. He's hard in his jeans, as mouthwateringly big as Harry remembers, and Harry's not faring much better. The air in the room is like molasses, sticking to the inside of his lungs and making every breath a challenge, and he's got Louis at the touch of his fingertips, the hottest thing he'd ever seen. He's not used to this, still, not used to the reactions Louis can get out of him with almost no effort. 

Once they get to the middle of the room, Louis turns them around with hands tight on Harry's upper arms. He kisses Harry deep and filthy and then _pushes him on the bed_ , and Harry goes from pleasantly cruising to diamond hard in point one seconds. 

Louis shucks off his jeans and crawls right on top of him, and the weight of him feels _so good_ pinning Harry to the mattress. Even though his hands are free, he feels completely at Louis's mercy, like he could do anything to Harry and Harry would be powerless to stop him, and the knowledge feels fucking amazing. 

Sparks of electricity travel down Harry's spine, in tune with Louis's lazy thrusts, and Harry _wants_ suddenly to be completely wrecked. He trusts Louis completely, knows he wouldn't do anything without checking with Harry first, and it's that trust that lets him close his eyes and imagine being bound to the bed and teased until he's begging for it.

"Hey," Louis says, both his hands resting warm on Harry's face. "You okay? D'you want to stop?" 

Christ. 

He looks so concerned when Harry manages to blink his eyes open and look at him, and he can't do much more than shake his head, overwhelmed with _Louis Louis Louis_. He's everywhere, in Harry's head and on his hips and in his heart and filling up the room with the scent of lust. Harry wants everything with him. 

"I'm okay," he says when Louis still doesn't looks convinced. He's stilled his hips, too, just sitting on top of Harry's legs; his thighs are strong and thick and – oh – dented from Harry's fingernails. "I'm fine. I don't want to stop, _please_." 

Louis must find what he's looking for in Harry's eyes, because his worried gaze turns to wicked in seconds. He grins like he does when he's planning on pulling a prank, all sharp canines, and leans close to Harry's ear with his hands still on Harry's chest. 

"What _do_ you want, then?" he half-whispers, raspy, and Harry fights a full-body shiver. "Since you asked so nicely." 

He bites Harry's earlobe and pulls away sharply, blinking like he hasn't played a significant role in causing Harry's incredibly persistent hard-on. When Harry doesn't reply for several seconds (or hours, he doesn't quite understand the concept of time anymore), he runs his fingers into Harry's hair, tugging a little, and bites down on his lip. 

"Want me to suck you off?" he asks, rolling his hips. Harry's blood thrums so loud in his ears he barely hears the question. Just the memory of Louis's mouth on him is enough to get his boxers wet, but he's—needy, suddenly, like he needs _more_ , needs to belong to Louis and reassure them both that they're actually alive. 

"N-no," he gets out, finally. "I…"

"You what, Haz?" Louis doesn't let up, circling his hips leisurely. Harry's toes curl. 

Louis knows exactly what Harry wants. He can probably see it in every line of Harry's face. 

" _Louis_." 

"Tell me," Louis says, a warm palm rubbing circles on Harry's neck. "Tell me and you can have whatever you want." 

Harry lets out a violent breath. The heat curling in his stomach spreads down his legs and up into his lungs and higher still until it clouds his brain with the promise of what he could have. "I want you," he says, simply, and finally manages to gain back control over his body. He runs his hands up Louis's thighs, enjoying the coarse tickle of his leg hair. The skin underneath his palms is hot and just a little slick with sweat, and Harry wants _more_. 

"You have me," Louis says simply, but the way he rocks forward into Harry's hands belies his cool exterior. 

"Lou, please." 

"Please what?" 

Harry's nostrils flare. It takes him exactly one impressively graceful movement to get a hold of Louis and flip them over until he's on top, nose to nose with Louis, who's still blinking the surprise out of his eyes.

It doesn't feel right just then, though Harry files the way Louis's hips fit perfectly between his thighs away for future use. 

"Please fuck me," Harry presses into the skin of his jaw along with a bite. "Please, Lou." He sounds small even to his own ears, and he can't quite tell if it's on purpose or not. He barely knows what's up and down anymore, but he's still got his goddamned trousers on. 

Louis _shivers_ all the way down to his toes and flips them right back over. He holds on to Harry a little tighter, hands a little more forceful, and leans down to kiss him sloppily with too much tongue. It's absolutely perfect, and Harry's eyes actually roll back behind his closed eyelids. 

"You want that?" Louis breathes, sounding a lot less composed. His hands are everywhere, flicking Harry's nipples and squeezing his thigh and holding on to his hair. Harry mouths at the curve of his shoulder in return, sinking his teeth in and swallowing around the salty taste on his tongue. There's a gorgeous sheen of sweat slowly rising over Louis's entire body, and Harry wants to see it turn into droplets. 

"What do you think?" Harry replies belatedly, grinding up to try and get some friction against Louis's thigh. Without warning, Louis clamps a hand around his hipbone and presses it back into the bed; he's gentle about it, obviously careful not to hurt, but Harry still gasps and misses a breath or ten. 

"I think you want me right here," he squeezes Harry's arse again, running a finger over the denim of his jeans, right where his cock is bulging the fabric and down, down, down. The trousers mute his touch down to barely a tickle, but Harry doesn't much care because Louis is _so close_. "I think you want me to feel how tight you are, how good." 

Harry whines in the back of his throat, more animal than human. He lets his legs fall open around Louis's hand, thrusting back, longing for some actual pressure. 

"Off," he mutters, disgruntled, in the direction of his jeans, not even trying to put together a response to Louis's dirty talk. 

Miraculously, Louis understands. He laughs, bringing both his hands to Harry's face, and kisses him softly. Harry welcomes the minute to slow down and catch his breath, grins gratefully into Louis's mouth and puffs out a short breath that turns into a gasp when warm hands land on the waistband of his jeans. Louis works the button quickly and pulls down the zipper with an impatient noise. The metal grates on Harry's cock over his boxers.

By the time they finally wrestle Harry out of his jeans, his pants are tented obscenely and wet with precome, driven crazy by Louis's sheer proximity and the occasional slide of skin against skin. There's sweat beading on Harry's temples and above his upper lip, and he has to tear his eyes away from Louis's to wipe it away in the sheets. 

"You sure about this, then?" asks Louis, bracing himself over Harry with a hand behind his head, leaving his other hand behind with fingers tangled in Harry's boxers. 

Harry huffs a humourless laugh and cants his hips up, chasing friction that's just millimetres away. 

"I hate you," he says, but he softens at the genuine concern on Louis's face. "I'm definitely sure, Lou," Harry pulls him down to plant a sticky, wet kiss on his cheek. If he nuzzles into his stubble just a little, well, nobody has to know. 

"It's just that I've never exactly done _this_ before," he says, ducking down to suck a kiss into Harry's neck, but mostly to hide his face. 

Harry chuckles, scratching Louis's scalp comfortingly. "Neither have I."

"Oh," Louis says. Then, "Right. Yeah. That's…not a lot of pressure at all." 

Harry honest to God giggles, but he doesn't have time to be embarrassed at himself when there's a Louis to comfort. He leans up and presses kisses all over Louis's face, because there's no rush and because he can. Louis goes warm and pliant underneath his hands, huffing a laugh into Harry's lips when they kiss. 

"We'll figure it out together, yeah?" Harry says, runs a finger down the slope of Louis's nose. "Now _do something_ before I explode." 

Louis pulls away from him with a wicked glint in his eye, back to his faux air of confidence. Harry grins at him and tangles a hand in his hair, infinitely comforted by the knowledge that Louis is in uncharted waters just like Harry himself. 

Louis kisses him and pulls his pants off at the same time, letting Harry shake his leg idiotically until they're off completely and using the time to get himself naked, too. When they slot back together, the friction is ten times more intense, hotter and slicker and more of everything. 

Louis latches on to Harry's nipple without a word, rolling it in-between his tongue and teeth; Harry squirms underneath him at the sudden shock of pleasure, moaning, and pulls at Louis's hair. The heat in his stomach builds and spreads through his body like warm honey as Louis moves lower, grips Harry's hips firmly and gently scratches at his sides and leaves a cooling trail of spit everywhere his mouth has been. He feels absolutely sinful everywhere on Harry's skin, angling his face just right to drag his stubble over the most sensitive places of Harry's body. When he presses butterfly-light kisses into the ridge underneath Harry's hipbone, the burn he leaves behind has Harry whimpering and biting the pillow, trying to muffle how desperate he sounds. 

Louis notices – of course he does. 

"Hey," he says, pulling off from where he was a breath away from Harry’s cock. "None of that." He rests his fingers gently on Harry's jaw, a request that Harry doesn't feel he could go against. He releases the pillow, grimacing at the fuzzy feeling in his mouth and swallowing dry. Louis's got a leisurely hand still resting at the base of Harry's cock, moving in tight circles that drag whimper after moan after whimper out of Harry unwittingly. 

"Good," Louis says, presses into Harry's collarbone. Harry's sure that, if he was still standing, this is the point where his knees would give out and buckle on him. "Wanna hear everything." Harry moans at just his words, long and drawn-out, and Louis's response consists of a smile, a peck on the cheek and his impossibly hot mouth on the head of Harry's cock. 

Harry throws his head back, the image of Louis's impossibly hollowed cheeks burned into the back of his eyelids. Louis's mouth is perfect, wet and tight as he sinks lower, hot breath breaking across the bottom of Harry's stomach. 

"Fuck," says Harry eloquently as he stares up at the ceiling, twitching at the white-hot coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside him. "Lou, 'm gonna—" 

"Oh," Louis says as he pulls off and pulls away. Harry wants to fold himself every which way, bend in half or roll into a ball or _something_ that would relieve the throbbing in his cock or bring Louis back or, better yet, both. 

He doesn't do any of it, though, because Louis sits back on his haunches above him, rests a hand in the middle of Harry's chest and says, "Was just taking the edge off. Sorry." 

Harry hates him, except for how he loves him with everything he has. "Lou," he says, _whines_ , desperate and needy high in his throat. 

Louis kisses him softly, dodging Harry's tongue, and pets his side with gentle fingers. "It's okay, love. Gonna make you feel really good, I promise." 

Harry moans, wraps his hands around Louis's neck to keep him right where he is and ruts slowly against the hard line of Louis's hip. His cock is slick with spit, slippery on Louis's golden skin, but it's better than nothing. 

Louis, for his part, holds still for a while, but just as Harry's beginning to feel the tingle of an oncoming orgasm below his navel, Louis starts trying to wiggle out of his grip. 

"Stay," Harry manages to pant out, chasing his mouth and lifting his hips hard enough to jostle Louis. "Please, Lou, come on." 

Louis moans into his mouth hopelessly, slotting right back, and Harry can only bite at his mouth and mumble incoherently as he comes, shooting fast and heavy in-between them. His muscles are locked clutching Louis to him as he rides the high, hips falling back on the bed. Harry thinks his mouth is probably open, judging by the concert of sounds echoing in the room that don't sound like Louis at all, but he doesn't much care. The stars behind his eyelids take a long while to fade away, spreading instead into his limbs and lighting up his skin with tingles and goosebumps. 

It has to be several minutes before Harry registers Louis mouthing at the underside of his chin and mumbling something soothingly. He's still hard against Harry's thigh, but he's still and laser-focused on Harry and this desperately good place he's gone off to. 

"Hey," he says when he trusts his voice again, and, "Sorry." 

Louis raises his head, pupils blown wide, but his eyes spark fondly. "Don't apologise, silly. You look very nice when you come." 

Harry barks in unexpected laughter, muffling the sound against Louis's shoulder. He feels floaty and high, soft and pliant and like he's ready to let Louis do whatever he wants to him. 

"Come on, then," he says, trailing his tingling fingers down, down until he's got a hand wrapped around Louis's cock, not tugging, just squeezing a little and holding him in place. Louis moans, high and pretty. Harry loves that he can make him sound like that. 

"Lube," says Louis eloquently, pulling away like he'd tried to do before and sifting through things in the drawer of his bedside table. He seems a little erratic, angling his hips down to rub his cock against Harry's thigh as he throws things out one after the other – a book, a couple of pens, a tangled ball of cables. Harry is hopelessly endeared. 

Finally, he holds up a half-empty tube with a triumphant smile on his face. 

"Don't use it much, do you?" Harry teases, and he's rewarded with a light slap on the arse that feels anything but punishing. His spent cock twitches in interest. 

"Shut up," Louis mumbles as he works on getting the cap to open. "I'm a busy man." 

"I'm sure," Harry grins. Louis kisses him for his trouble, the snick of the cap finally resounding in the room. It feels loud in Harry's werewolf ears, somehow final, and even though he wants this more than anything he's suddenly hit – all over again – with what they're about to do. 

Louis must feel him still, because he turns the kiss soft and sweet and pets Harry's side comfortingly. He's still hard against Harry's leg, though, which. 

"Don't have to do this," he says, and it feels to Harry like that's what he's been saying all this time. He's so lovely and careful and treating Harry like he's spun fucking glass; Harry wants to give him the world, wants to be connected to him in every way possible, burns with it so bright he's sure it must bleed through his skin. Maybe that's a thing werewolves can do. He should ask. 

"Want to," he says decisively, and takes one of Louis's hands by the wrist to drag it down, past where his cock is perking up in interest again at having Louis's warm skin plastered all over Harry's body. 

Louis breathes out harshly through his nose, biting Harry's lip. "Alright, just. Tell me if you want to stop." 

Harry nods wordlessly, gulping. He watches Louis as he looks down, focused, and gets his fingers slick with lube. He leaves the tube open, tangled in the sheets right by Harry's hip, and moves in to kiss Harry again. His fingers are wet and cold when they part Harry's cheeks, petting gently, dipping in and out but never touching. 

Harry inhales through his nose, the air suddenly burning in his lungs, thick with the scent of Louis and skin and their combined lust. It's both the anticipation and the vulnerability that has sweat beading in the small of his back and his blood thumping wildly. He couldn't be more open for Louis if he tried, laid completely bare in front of him as he is. He's never done this before. It feels monumental. 

He rolls his hips, pressing back against Louis's fingers, and that seems to be what Louis has been waiting for; he rests a tip of a finger right against Harry's hole, soft and without pressure. Harry shivers, overwhelmed. 

When Louis presses in, it's the strangest thing Harry has ever felt, and the hottest, somehow – it's _nothing_ like Harry's own fingers, so much bolder, so different. Louis is mouthing at the skin of Harry's inner thighs, soft and wet, and pushing so slowly it makes Harry squirm. The lube is a shock of cold, but Louis is impossibly warm everywhere, outside and _inside_ Harry. Shit.

"Okay?" Louis checks when he buries his entire finger in, down to the knuckle and pulls out again, building up a lazy rhythm. The slick drag of skin against skin is amazing, and it feels like Louis is so, _so_ deep.

"Okay," Harry manages, pushing his arse back. It's not much of a stretch yet, but he feels full already, can't quite comprehend the thought of taking Louis's cock in its entirety, but he's watched porn. If Buster Fuegobutt can do it, so can he. 

The second finger burns coming in, but Harry makes a conscious effort to relax, and his werewolf side probably helps, too. He clenches around Louis, drags him in greedily, moans when Louis parts his fingers a little, stretching him and sliding along Harry's walls. It doesn't take long before the pain fades and Harry slams his hips down desperately in search for more. He's well on his way to hard again, sensitive even to the graze of the air. 

He's on the verge of begging for another finger when Louis twists his hand just so, going in deep until Harry can feel his first knuckles pressed tight against his hole. Louis's fingers part, rubbing in what feels like circles, and Harry is suddenly jerking and twisting his hands in the sheets and biting his lip so hard he almost bites clean through. There’s a spot Louis is gently pressing against, stroking in little come-hither motions that have Harry's cock hard again in two seconds flat, and he's pretty sure there's a firework display going on inside the room; he sees literal _stars_.

"Was that—" 

"Mhm," Louis hums, biting Harry's thigh. "Feel good?" 

"Fuck," is the only affirmative Harry can think of at the moment. Louis strokes his prostate again, relentless, and Harry is powerless to stop the moans crawling up his throat. "You're really good at that," he says breathlessly, and almost laughs at himself. Trust him to pay the most awkward compliments ever during his first time getting fingered. 

"I've done this to myself, you know," says Louis in response, and he sounds amused. A glance down at him reveals ruffled hair and bright eyes and a puffy mouth that looks sinfully red against Harry's pale skin. It takes a while for what he's just said to register, and when it does, Harry slams his head back into the pillow a little too violently. The thought of Louis doing this, making himself come apart on his own fingers, it's. It's too much. Harry thinks he'd like to see that, sometime, makes a mental note to ask Louis if he survives this with all his brain cells intact. 

"More?" Louis asks eventually, once he's presumably satisfied with the way Harry is squirming in the sheets, hot and sweaty and just this side of too sensitive. 

" _Please_ ," he rasps out, digging his fingernails into his own palms through the sheet clenched in his fist. Louis obliges immediately, third finger massaging the skin around Harry's rim gently before he pushes it in. 

In the first second, Harry thinks the stretch is too much, but it's too good to give up. He focuses on his breathing, on relaxing his muscles despite how wound tight he feels, on letting Louis in and letting himself be wrecked in the best way. 

It doesn't take long for the pain to fade, and this time Harry can tell it's his wolf relieving him by the warm tingle that snakes down his spine. He's endlessly grateful as Louis pushes in deeper, stretches him wider. He clenches around Louis's fingers desperate for _something_ , and builds up a slow rhythm with his hips. When Louis goes in next, Harry meets him halfway. Their skin collides hot and slick, and Louis loses his composure for just a moment to moan into Harry's hip. 

Harry remembers, suddenly, that Louis hasn't gotten off yet, that he's still hard and probably on the edge by now. Yet, he does nothing to ease the pressure he must be feeling, doesn't even rub against the sheets; he's laser focused on Harry, making him come apart and kissing him everywhere he can reach, _worshipping_ him. Harry's heart keeps stuttering with how much he loves this boy.

He's creeping closer to the edge himself, for the second time, and he's still not sure how that's happening. Louis is sucking love bites into his skin that fade away in seconds, twisting his fingers and spreading them wide and pulling out with a sound that's as shameless as it is hot. Harry pulls himself higher on the bed, away. 

"M' ready, Lou," he says, trying to catch his breath. Louis raises his head, kneels to meet Harry's eyes head on; his are burning, flashing red and blue, and Harry can tell just from his expression how much he's wanted. It makes him hot head to toe, shivering under waves of arousal. 

"All my condoms are expired," Louis says. Harry looks at him for what has to be at least a minute, then bursts out laughing. 

"I just remembered, I'm sorry!" Louis shouts to be heard over him, but he's giggling too, pressing a hand to his face to hide it. Harry slides down the bed until Louis's crouched between his legs, pulls his arms away and kisses him with everything he doesn't have the words to say right now. 

"We can do it anyway." 

"Harry…" Louis says warily, biting his lip. 

"Louis," Harry mimics, taking Louis's hand and twining their fingers together. "We're werewolves. We can't get sick." 

"I know, but. Are you sure?" 

Harry almost moans in frustration, but resists pressing his cock up against Louis's – he figures that might be too much for both of them. He feels empty already having this conversation, as necessary as it is, but he wants Louis inside him so badly he could cry, wants them to be together in every sense of the word. 

"I'm sure, Lou," he says, looking into Louis's eyes. "I love you. There's no risk in this, I want to feel you, please." 

Louis closes his eyes, breathes out. He smells like want and lust and himself, overwhelmingly strong. "Okay. Shit, Harry, okay, I want to be inside you, fuck—" 

Harry cuts him off with a kiss, all filthy tongue and sharp teeth on Louis's lip. He lies back, settling comfortably on the bed, dragging Louis over him. He manages to find the lube teetering on the very edge of the bed and press it into Louis's hand. 

"Please." 

Louis curses softly and pulls away. He's quick but thorough when he coats his cock, erratic in his movements and hissing when he touches the reddened head. Harry wants to take him in and make him come and see his face when he does. He'd like to do this for him, too, but his arms mostly feel like jelly. 

Louis slides two still-wet fingers into him easily, down to the knuckles, and Harry buries his moan in the pillow. 

"Hey," Louis touches his face, thumb running across Harry's cheekbone. "Look at me, please. I can't do this if you don't look at me." 

Harry does, and feels the air in the room become impossibly heavier. Louis doesn't drop his gaze as he picks up Harry's legs, as he lines up, keeps looking when he pushes in with just the head, stretching Harry so much wider than his fingers ever have. 

Harry moans and breathes through his nose, clenching his hands around Louis's biceps. The pain goes away quickly, but the soft, insistent burn stays, as does the stretch. It makes Harry hungry for more, greedy to have all of Louis in him. 

He pushes back, taking in an inch or two, trying to get Louis to move. When he finally gets the message, he goes deeper slow but steady, without stopping. Harry keeps pulling in air as Louis's cock slides into him, stretching and tugging on his rim, brushing his inner walls, and it's only when Louis bottoms out, pulling Harry's arse snugly against his hips that he breathes out. 

Louis is the first one to break eye contact, frowning, mouth falling open. Harry _feels_ him twitch. 

"You're so—fuck—"

  "Move," Harry interrupts, squeezing Louis's arms tighter, grounding himself in the flex of muscle to ward off his second orgasm of the night that's already growing low in his stomach. "Move, _please_ —"

Louis falls forward to kiss him, drawing his hips back until it's just the head of his cock buried in Harry again, and sliding forward. Harry squirms, moans into his mouth and squeezes his legs tighter; the slide feels even better like this, fast and slick and rubbing him raw. Louis's thrusts are languid, hips rolling in little figure eights as he pushes in again and again, changing the angle constantly, like he's—ah, shit. Looking for something. 

Harry whimpers so loud Louis's mouth isn't enough to catch it, echoing under the tall ceiling of the room. His legs twitch restlessly, toes curling. Louis hits his prostate on the next thrust, and the next, and the one after that, and Harry wants to pull away and bury himself in him at the same time, moaning hopelessly as Louis speeds up, filling the room with the harsh slap of skin on skin. 

"Jesus, Harry, fuck," Louis keeps swearing into Harry's mouth. His muscles are trembling where he's holding up himself and Harry's legs, thighs slipping, sweat-slick, against Harry's. 

Harry's been close before Louis was even in him, but now he's shooting higher every time Louis hits his prostate, getting closer to something he doesn't know because he's never felt this good. 

Somehow, Louis manages to go faster still, thrusting relentlessly until Harry's being knocked higher on the bed with every thrust. As far as Harry can comprehend, it's actually incredibly hot, being held in place only by his grip on Louis and the place they're connected. Harry closes his eyes, squirming in abandon; he feels too full in the best way, too full of Louis and of love and of arousal. The heat in his belly crawls up, making his chest flush, and he's got his mouth open wide and nails digging into skin when he comes. Words he can't hear scratch their way up his throat, probably a shout of Louis's name.

Louis stills when Harry clenches around him, unconsciously gyrating his hips as he rides his orgasm, and he swears softly right in Harry's ear as he tips over the edge, too. His cock twitches and pulses and he spills hot and deliciously good inside Harry. 

"Haz," Louis mouths almost wordlessly against the side of Harry's throat, muscles still spasming occasionally. His arms are trembling as he lets Harry's legs fall down to bracket him. 

"I know," Harry says in a perfectly wrecked voice, finally unclenching his hands to run them through the rivulets of sweat on Louis's back and tangle them in Louis's hair, rubbing senseless circles into his scalp. He wants to touch Louis forever, in any way he can, tell him how perfect he is, how lovely, how Harry doesn't want anybody else. 

When Louis finally slumps to the side and pulls out, Harry, as expected, feels empty. He's cold, too, soaked sheets sticky on his skin, but none of that actually matters when he realises that he's got Louis's come leaking out of him, making a mess. His breath stutters in his chest, and he thinks that, if either of them was up for another round, he could come just from thinking about this for too long. It feels so intimate, like Louis is inside him still even as he crawls closer and wraps himself around Harry. 

They're silent, for a while. Harry doesn't think much of anything, just lazily contemplates the difference between life as he's known it before and life now. Louis's breath is pleasantly cool on the underside of his jaw, and the way their skin sticks together is the way Harry wants it to stay for as long as possible. 

It's Louis who speaks first. "Fuck," is what he says. 

Harry hides his smile in Louis's hair, whispers, "Yeah."

Louis pushes on Harry's shoulder, lying him flat on his back, and pulls himself up until he's got his chin resting on Harry's chest just below his collarbones, so close their heartbeats sound perfectly in sync. 

He looks perfect. His hair is an absolute mess, sticking up every which way and curling from moisture at the back of his neck; he's got shamelessly red cheeks and his eyes – they're absolutely brilliant. Harry can read everything in the changing colours, in the sparks that dance in them, so bright Harry thinks for a moment they might spark down Louis's eyelashes and spill across his chest. He feels the same explosions of happiness underneath every inch of his own skin. 

"I love you," Louis says. "Thank you." 

Harry grins at him, tugs on his shoulder until Louis moves up and they're nose to nose. "You're ridiculous." 

When they kiss, Harry is reminded of New Year's. Louis had called him ridiculous then, and his lips had tasted every bit as new and exciting as they do now. It's a chaste kiss, soft, with Louis's arms wrapped loosely around Harry's neck, and it says more than words ever could. 

"We should clean up, you know," says Louis twenty minutes later, still draped all over Harry.

"Too late now," Harry says. The mess they're lying on has mostly dried up, leaving the sheets crusted and disgusting, and Harry's own legs are sticky and uncomfortable. A shower sounds like too long a time to be upright, though, and he is so not up for that. 

"Mhm. Your room, then?" 

"Isn't it a guest room?" Harry asks as he begins the process of untangling them. 

"It is if you're a guest," says Louis, smiling. He's the first one to get up, and Harry is treated to the incredible view of his back muscles and bum as he stretches with a drawn-out moan. He's not too sure he can get up, himself. 

"Come on, Haz." 

"Nrgh," is Harry's eloquent response. He turns his face into the pillow. "Carry me." 

He doesn't expect Louis to actually carry him; he's just waiting for his legs to start cooperating, really, wants to come into the room to Louis already sprawled out and deliciously golden in the sheets, but he doesn't get the chance. 

Louis picks him up, just like that, and walks out of the room. 

"What are you doing?" Harry squeaks, arms wrapped tight around Louis's neck. 

Louis's smile is brilliant when he looks down and pecks Harry on the forehead. "I'm carrying you, silly." 

Harry blushes. He blushes so hard his cheeks actually feel like they're on fire, and during the short walk between Louis's room and his, he curls up in Louis's arms like a cat.

The thing is, it's so, so nice. It should maybe make him feel like a child, being carried and given forehead kisses, but he feels the intent behind them; he's not being babied, he's being loved. 

When they get to Harry's room, Louis kicks the door closed and sets Harry down on the bed so gently he's barely aware of it. He's getting sleepy now, sated and happy as he is, making incredibly childish grabby hands in Louis's direction. He makes himself small, curls into a ball and waits until Louis understands and wraps around him, warm and all-encompassing. 

Harry feels like he's floating somewhere outside his own body, too big for his skin, but above all, he feels calm. The house is silent around him, safe again, and he's sure the sheer happiness he's feeling is enough to keep more trouble away. 

He purrs into Louis's chest, vaguely aware of soothing words being whispered into his hair. Everything is good now, he thinks. Everything is the way it's supposed to be. 

The only sound that's there to lull him into sleep is Louis's breathing.

*

"Couldn't sleep?"

Harry watches as Louis lazily opens his eyes and turns around. He's got a mug of tea in his hands and a blanket over his shoulders, curled up in the chair; when he sees Harry, he smiles. 

"Morning," he says. "What're you doing out of bed?" 

"I was cold," Harry pouts automatically. "You weren't there. Thought you got kidnapped by aliens or summat." 

Louis smiles brilliantly. He looks peaceful and calm in the low light, settled in a way that warms Harry down to his toes. The morning is still grey behind the windows, early enough that the oranges of a sunrise are just starting to paint the forest floor with colour, but Louis doesn't look tired, and Harry doesn't feel it. 

"Niall called me, actually." 

"He did?" Harry asks as he goes about making his own tea. "Why?" 

"Dunno," Louis shrugs, standing up and shuffling to the window seat. He battles with the blanket and tries to settle down comfortably, bare feet poking out into the frigid morning air, and Harry makes a note to go and make a fire when he feels like letting him out of his sight. "He just does that, sometimes. I usually go back to sleep, but I came down here to talk and it seemed like too much effort to go back upstairs." 

Harry nods to show he's listening, inclining his head towards the window seat in a wordless question. Louis presses himself tighter to the wall, pulls his legs in, and smiles. 

They curl up under the blanket together, too many limbs and not enough fabric, watching the sun rise and shimmer through the leaves. Louis rests his head on Harry's shoulder, puffing little content breaths into his neck. They don't say anything for what feels like hours; it doesn't feel like anything needs to be said. 

The restlessly ticking clock on the kitchen wall says the time is 7:25 when they spot Niall coming up the forest path. He looks oddly like he belongs there, emerging from the shadows in his usual dark clothes like a black cat, though his face is anything but. Harry thinks of Snow White as he watches him skip up the path, wave at birds high up in the trees and bend down to brush dew off of still-closed flowers that bloom under his touch. He's smiling even as he stops right at the edge of the forest to press his fingers to the small gravestone. 

("He would have hated this," Louis had said when Niall showed them for the first time. 

"I know," Niall had replied. They stood there for several minutes, just looking at the sleek grey stone, empty except for the small etching of a wolf in one corner, painted red. 

Then, Harry picked a dandelion to tuck into the mound of dirt. Louis took his hand as they walked away; he smiled even as his eyes shone and didn’t look back again.) 

As expected, he lets himself in with a bang of the door, probably waking everyone in the house. 

"Morning, lads," he announces as he trails dirt into the kitchen. His smile grows when he spots them in their warm little heap by the window. 

"Morning," Harry says, propping his chin up on Louis's head. 

"Any food?" 

"No," says Harry when Louis remains stubbornly silent, reaching over to slap Niall's hand off the fridge door. "Lou woke up first." 

Louis growls in Harry's arms, sounding about as menacing as a kitten. Niall must think so, too, because he scratches him behind the ear before he plops down into the chair closest to them.

 "You really need to learn how to cook, Tommo."

"Like hell I do," he replies, finally straightening. His hair is sticking up everywhere and he sounds _so grumpy_ Harry can't help giggling. "Haz knows how t' cook, and I'm keeping him forever, so." 

Harry will vehemently deny the butterflies that flood his stomach then. He's been on the forever train for a long, long while, he thinks, possibly since before Louis actually started speaking to him. But just hearing it said out loud, even if there's no meaning behind it, is immensely satisfying. 

Niall rolls his eyes and turns his attention to Harry, pestering him some more. A hungry Niall is truly a force to be reckoned with, as is evidenced by Harry actually untangling himself from Louis and getting to his feet. 

Liam joins them not a minute later, apparently woken up by Niall's grand entrance, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes. 

"Where's Z?" asks Louis just as Harry sticks his entire head in the fridge, trying to figure out a way to feed them all something warm with what's in front of him – namely, ten eggs, a carton of milk and three apples. It's nice to see that some things haven't changed. 

There's silence. Harry turns his head to see Liam looking everywhere but at Louis, but they're saved the inevitable interrogation when a set of keys jangles in the lock. 

Harry closes the fridge and leans against it, curious, unconsciously mirroring Louis's crossed arms. They look like a pissed-off pair of parents. The thought probably shouldn't make him flush pleasantly, but Harry is Harry; it can't be helped. 

"Ah. Shit," is what Zayn says when he looks up from his shoes to find them all staring. He's wearing freshly washed jeans and what looks like a button up, clean shaven and with his hair soft and flopping over his forehead. Harry smells cologne, too, much stronger than what Zayn usually wears. 

"What the fuck," Louis says. 

"Um." 

Liam is the one who decides to take them out of their misery. He gets up and gives Zayn a hug, pressing a "how'd it go?" into his shoulder. It does create an illusion of privacy, but they all know that Louis is listening to every word. 

"How did what go?" 

"Why are you so curious?" Zayn asks, taking off his jacket and joining them in the kitchen. He's got dark circles underneath his eyes and he looks pale, but happy. There's a quiet contentment in his eyes when he looks at Louis, a light like Harry's never quite seen before. 

"There are things happening without my knowledge. I don't like it," Louis pouts. Harry goes to him and pets his hair, trying very hard not to laugh. 

Zayn sighs and looks at each of them in turn. There's something else different about him, but Harry can't quite put his finger on it. 

"I was at a job interview," he says finally. Louis stills underneath Harry's hand. 

"What job interview?" 

"For a teaching position."

"Obviously," Louis says, leaning forward. He sounds breathless, and it's his obvious excitement that helps Harry put the pieces together. _No way_. "A teaching position where?" 

"At the, um," Zayn drops Louis's gaze, playing with his fingers. "The primary down on Mill Lane . They were looking for an art teacher." 

" _Zayn_ ," Louis says, clambering off the window seat and to Zayn's chair, crouching in front of him. 

"I, uh. I got it. I start next Monday." 

There's silence. Nobody breathes, nobody moves, and the forest behind the window looks frozen, too. 

Then, Louis sniffles, and Liam shoots out of his chair so quickly it hits the wall. Niall shouts something very, very loudly and descends on Zayn first, wrapping both arms and legs around him like a koala; Louis follows, wiping his face in the back of Niall's shirt, and Liam actually lunges across the table to wedge himself in-between them. It's then that Harry finally unfreezes and joins, flopping right on top true to his nature, snaking an arm underneath Louis's armpit and above Niall's knee to get to touch Zayn at all and ruffle his hair. 

"Congrats," Louis says, watery, face buried somewhere in Zayn's neck. They echo him one by one, weak words pressed into hair and various awkward places. Harry remembers all the times they've ever been piled all over each other crying – Pixar films and one particularly intrusive game of never have I ever and when Louis woke up after they'd almost thought they'd lost him. It makes him reach that much further, grip Liam's shoulder and hug Zayn's neck that much tighter. 

Even when they untangle they stay close together, sitting on chairs and the table and each other's laps to form a curious circle around Zayn, who finds himself under assault of questions, mostly courtesy of Louis. 

Harry, abandoning the happiness and warmth and love of his pack for a while, gets up to dig out some flour and start on celebratory pancakes.

*

"Hey, Haz?" Louis asks him that night when they're the only two awake, resting together with the TV on.

"Hm?" Harry hums into his hair, too comfortable to bother moving. They've been in the same position for the past two hours, with Louis lying on Harry's chest, holding hands, feet tangled. 

"Move in?" 

Harry chokes on thin air. He pulls away to look at Louis properly, is met with nothing but perfectly open, honest eyes and a sweet smile. 

"You sure?" 

Louis only rolls his eyes a little, bringing one of their tangled hands up to kiss Harry's knuckles. "Haz, look at this place." His eyes flit around the living room, to the new pillows on the sofa and the bright orange fire and the little flowers Harry had drawn around the light switches with a sharpie when he was bored. Through the open door, Zayn's pictures flicker back at them in the light, their own faces and brightly lit forest landscapes. "You made it a home. It doesn't feel right when you're not here." 

Harry looks at him again, and he's sure his heart is about to burst. "You're such a sap," he says, even as he feels himself tear up with happiness.

"That would be your fault," says Louis shrewdly. 

Harry leans down for a kiss, soft and sweet. "Are you absolutely sure, though?" 

"Harry. It's past midnight, we're almost asleep on the sofa and you have class tomorrow. " 

And when he puts it like that, well. It's not like Harry spends any time in his own flat anymore. This is where he sleeps, where he studies, where he cooks breakfasts and lunches and dinners. This is where his heart belongs. 

He grins down at Louis. "Alright. Alright, I'll move in."

"That's what I wanted to hear," Louis grins. He wraps himself around Harry tighter, kisses him like it's the first time, and that's that. 

It's really that easy. 

"Love you," Harry murmurs when he closes his eyes, about ready to go to sleep wrapped up in his favourite boy. 

"Love you too, Pup," Louis whispers back. "So much."

***

Louis is vibrating next to him. He smells so strongly of fear Harry wants to do more than squeeze his hand and kiss his hair, but he's not sure what. He feels inadequate here, completely out of his depth.

The house in front of them is nice enough, tall and narrow, squashed between the wall of a small commercial building and a semi-detached. The small garden in front is littered with toys, colourful and charming, interspersed with the odd flower, the grass a little overgrown, but a brilliant green in the August morning - perfect to lie down and have a nap in, Harry thinks. 

Louis hasn't looked away from the front door since they walked up and stopped in front of the garden gate. He hasn't said anything, either. Harry wants to give him time, but he also doesn't want to spook anybody who might happen to look out of the window.

"Lou," he says, finally, words almost carrying away in the breeze. 

Louis blinks, slowly turning to him. His pupils are wide. "I don't know if I can do this, Haz," he says, and he sounds so small, so desperate. 

"You don't have to," Harry turns them until they're facing each other, cradling Louis's face in his hands. "The car's right there," he motions to Liam's beat-up Toyota. "We can get in and leave if you don't think you're ready. It's okay, Lou, I promise." 

Louis closes his eyes. Harry kisses him on the forehead, soft and lingering, and pulls him close until he's breathing in their combined scents and nothing else. They don't say anything for a long while, but the tremors racking Louis's shoulders subside little by little. 

The sun makes its way through the sky too quickly. 

"I just," Louis says eventually, takes a deep, shuddering breath, "I just need to know that you're here with me. Whatever…" he pauses. "Whatever happens."

Harry feels the telltale sting of tears behind his eyes. He's been emotional all day, ever since they woke up at six and drove up from London, overflowing with love and pride. 

"I am, you know that," he whispers into Louis's temple, pressing soft kisses all over his face, to his pinched mouth and trembling eyelids. "I'm here, and I'll keep holding your hand for as long as you want me to, okay?" 

"What if I want to turn back?" 

Harry pulls him closer. His hands don't seem like enough; he wants to hold all of Louis to him, feel him everywhere, cradle him and protect him from the hurt. It's too late for that, perhaps, but more of it is staring them right in the face, just beyond the chipped front door of this house. 

"Then we turn back. And I'll take you to get that milkshake you've been craving all day." 

Louis bursts out laughing, a tinge hysterical. "I'm not going to ask how you know that." 

"Don't." 

Louis stays in his arms for a few more minutes, loose fingers wrapped around Harry's wrists wrapped around Louis's neck. Then, he takes a deep breath and steps away. 

"Okay," he says. "Okay." 

He rings the doorbell with a fiery determination that only lasts the one second. Harry is so incredibly proud of him. 

All this had been his idea, initially. He's the one who brought it up, on an evening walk in the forest, and it had led to their first almost-fight. Yet, two months later, here they are. It's only now that he wonders if maybe Louis had been right back then; if all of this is too much for him to take.

As Harry watches him press the button labeled _Deakin_ with a world of fear in his eyes, like he doesn't belong here, like he doesn't have a hope he ever will, he wonders if some things are better left at rest. 

For a minute, there's no obvious movement in the house. They're early enough that they should still be home and late enough to be polite, but it's still disappointing to think about – that maybe they've come all the way here, maybe Louis had taken the journey here on the sidewalk for nothing, because his family isn't home. 

Then, the curtain twitches. Harry is the first one to notice, because Louis is staring at his shoes. 

It's a young girl, fair-haired and wide-eyed, peeking at them tentatively like she's been forbidden. Harry chances a wave, adding a smile that feels more like a grimace. To his surprise, she smiles back, wiggles her fingers at him, and then she disappears back into the shadows. 

Louis sighs, thin, sounding like he's close to tears again. Harry takes a step to plaster himself against his side, and Louis gratefully latches on to Harry's sleeve. He steps back, hiding behind Harry like a child. 

The door opens. 

The woman standing there, wiping her hands into a flowery apron with a curious look on her face, is so obviously Louis's mother. Their features are different, but she's got an aura about her, something endlessly kind and lovely and nurturing, exactly like her son. 

"Can I help you?" she asks, looking at Harry. Because Harry is the only person she can really see. Right. 

"Um," Harry says, trying to muster up a polite smile. Louis makes a sound behind his back, something between a whimper and a bark, and clutches Harry's hand so tightly his bones shift around. Then he clears his throat, huffs, and stands next to Harry. 

The air shifts from breezy morning to thick molasses, like the noon of a midsummer day. Cars breeze by on the nearby motorway, unnoticed, and Harry doesn't dare breathe. 

It's Louis – wonderful, brave, on the verge of tears Louis – who breaks the silence. 

"Mum?" is all he asks. It's the single most heartbreaking sound Harry has ever heard. 

She drops the tail of the apron from her frozen hands. The moment of recognition is obvious on her face, in the way the corners of her mouth wobble and her eyes shine. Harry is suddenly reminded that the last time she saw Louis, he was eighteen.

Louis steps closer, until his free hand is curled tightly around the garden gate. His mum doesn't step back, still silent; she looks as if she'd seen a ghost, pale and still, like Louis is a figment of her imagination.

"Mum, I…" he trails off. He tugs Harry closer, right into his side. "I'm sorry, I. I don't even know why I'm here, we should just—" 

"Louis," she says, and just like that, Louis falls silent. Harry holds his breath. "Is it…baby, is it really you?" 

Louis clamps a hand over his nose and mouth, choking back what's obviously a sob. A tear teeters on his eyelash and rolls down his cheek. "It's me," he gets out. His knuckles turn white over Harry's. "It's me, Mum, I'm sorry—" 

And then, in the way that always seems right for films but never for real life, Louis's mum is running down the garden path in fuzzy slippers, stumbling over a toy car and throwing the garden gate open. Harry lets Louis go and watches him slot into his mother's arms, overwhelmed by how right it feels, how at home Louis looks with his face buried in her hair, just a bit taller than her. 

"I'm sorry," she's whispering, Harry realises, tucking the words into the collar of Louis's shirt. Louis is mumbling back, words that Harry could make out if he wanted to, but he turns away instead. Blinks the sting out of his eyes, looks up at the sky and realises that _this is it_. They're here. Louis has done it. 

He doesn't know how long they stand there, really, and he happily would until dark. But Louis's mum – Jay, Harry remembers – pulls away eventually, and the first words out of her mouth are "who's this?". 

Harry turns back to them sheepishly, running a hand through his messy hair. He's wearing his best jeans and a plaid button up, but under her gaze, he feels inappropriate, somehow. 

Louis wipes his face off uselessly with his hands. "This, um. This is Harry," he says, trying to get his voice back. "He's the reason I'm here." 

Harry blushes, he's certain he does. That's nonsense, he wants to say, Louis would've found his way back here anyway. But then Jay's eyes are on him, nothing but kind, and Louis's trembling hand slips back into his. It's the world righting itself on its axis. 

"Hello," Harry says, polite. He extends a tentative hand, but Jay pulls him forward and into a hug instead. It's quick and cursory, between strangers; it still makes Harry feel ten years younger. 

Once he steps back, Louis crowds even closer into his space, holding on to Harry's sleeve with his other hand. It's then that Harry realises he's keeping his distance, even as the smell of his mum's laundry detergent fades from his skin. Harry forgets the fact that he is, technically, meeting the parents; all that matters is Louis. Harry is here as a reminder that he can walk away at any minute, that they've got their very own getaway car parked right across the street for whenever things become too much. 

The love here is overwhelming, almost tangible, but this still is the woman who'd abandoned Louis when he needed her. Harry has his own experience with that, and yet, he can't imagine how she feels. 

"Would you," she starts, then stops to take a breath. She's got the apron clutched in her hands again, wringing it this way and that. "Would you like to come in?" 

"Are the girls home?" Louis asks immediately. 

"They are, yes," she smiles softly, subdued and unsure. "We just finished breakfast." 

"Then yes," says Louis. He turns to Harry, "If that's okay with you." 

Louis leads him down the garden path by the hand. The inside of the house is similar to the front, cluttered with brightly-coloured dolls and ponies and building blocks; the entrance hall is small and narrow, full of shoes, but the whole place smells like vanilla, warm and homey. Harry's used to tall ceilings and damp corners, but he still likes it, wants to take a look inside. 

"It's exactly the same," Louis whispers, awed. 

Harry doesn't get a word in. A teenage girl skips noisily down the stairs in front of them, phone in hand. 

"Who was it, Mum?" 

She looks up when nobody answers her. Louis freezes by Harry side. 

"Hey, Lotts." 

Lottie opens her mouth once, twice, but no sound comes out. She skips over the last step heavily, landing on the carpet; her reaction is almost eerily similar to her mother's. 

"Louis," she says. She runs to them, then, a flurry of blonde hair, and Harry lets Louis go again. Another girl, a little younger, dark-haired and looking terrified, pokes her head in from another room; she doesn't say anything, ignores her mother's quiet words about something or other and jumps in on the hug. If Harry's honest, she reminds him a little of himself. 

Louis ends up in a heap on the floor with two of his sisters, the three of them wrapped around each other and unwilling to let go. Harry wonders what the girls are thinking, what they've been told, but it doesn't look like it matters anymore; they're holding on to their brother tight with smiles on their faces, and Louis is grinning right back, full of mischief. 

Harry notices the little girls run into the room before anybody else does. They hop through the hall on socked feet and fist a hand each tightly in Jay's apron, and when one of them speaks, the happy chatter in the room dies. 

"Who is that, Mummy?" 

Harry can _smell_ the rapid shift in Louis's mood. The sadness comes back, just like that, laced with a new anger that hadn't been there before, but Louis is nothing but gentle when he untangles himself from Lottie and Fizzy and crouches across from the little girls. 

"Hello," he says, and his voice almost doesn't break. "I'm Louis. I'm your brother." 

He's told Harry enough stories to fill a lifetime, of feeding the baby twins from a bottle and running to check if they're still breathing while babysitting. Daisy's first word had been "Lou", and he was the only one there when Phoebe took her first steps. He used to cry with how much he missed them, those first few months. 

Harry can tell what Louis is feeling just from his expression, and Harry's heart breaks right along with his. 

"I'm Phoebe," one of them says finally, stepping forward and peering curiously at Loius's hugged-pink cheeks. "I think I remember you a little. You used to have ridiculous hair." 

Louis blinks back his tears. "That I did," he says with a smile, even as his heart stutters audibly. " _You_ used to pull on it all the time. And you're not Phoebe," he continues, "Phoebe has a scar on her eyebrow. From the first and only time I ever took you swimming." 

The girl still hidden behind Jay's apron – Phoebe – squeaks. "Mum," she says, breathless, "Is he really our brother?" 

"He is, love," says Jay, watching all her children with a pained expression. "D'you want to give him a hug?" 

Phoebe nods, makes her way through Daisy standing in the middle of the hall and the wrinkled carpet and her other sisters, hanging on to Louis's neck like a very cute leech. 

"You smell nice," she mumbles. Louis and Harry burst out laughing at the same time. "Wow. I can't believe I have _two_ brothers!" 

Lottie and Fizzy get up, running up the stairs giggling together, and Louis coughs violently. "Two brothers?" 

Phoebe pulls away and plops down on Louis's knee, curling into his side. "Well, _duh_. You're a boy, Ernest is a boy, two brothers!" 

Louis looks up at his mother. His expression, for once, is unreadable. "Ernest?" 

"Let's go to the kitchen, yes?" Jay says, smiling sheepishly, but it doesn't quite sound like a suggestion. 

The twins get up and run into an open door on the left immediately, but Louis just crouches and blinks. His gaze is both reproachful and resistant, and there's a world of emotions behind it that Harry thought were long gone. 

He helps Louis stand up, grits his teeth at the death grip Louis immediately takes on his elbow, and stumble-walks them both into the kitchen. The room is dominated by an enormous table, at which the twins are already sitting. Louis seems wobbly and unsure on his legs. Harry pushes him gently into a chair. 

Lottie and Fizzy come back then, treading down the stairs in careful steps. They're holding a little babbling bundle each, wrapped up in tiny onesies and white socks and Harry blinks violently, suddenly a little overwhelmed. _Babies_.

"Meet Ernest and Doris," Lottie says, smiling. 

Harry watches Louis closely, sees the individual emotions flit across his face one after another. He settles on astonishment, in the end, and a bright smile that seems to crinkle his eyes against his own will. 

"Oh my God," he says. 

Fizzy bypasses their mother, coming to sit down next to Louis. The baby in her arms – Doris, the onesie says – turns its head, blinking at Louis slowly with enormous blue eyes. She's adorable, all tiny clenched fists and a soft nose the size of a button. Her hair is wispy and fair, brushed up into a ridiculous mohawk on top of her head, and Harry can pinpoint the exact moment Louis falls in love. 

"Oh my God," he repeats. Then, just like all those months ago with Lux, his voice changes, high and light and soft. "Hi." 

"Ba!" Doris shouts. Harry has to bite his own knuckles to stop his smile. Louis, though, just lets his own spread wide and bright across his face, eyes crinkling. He extends his arms the smallest bit, like he's not sure he's allowed, and Fizzy passes her into Louis's arms without hesitation. Louis holds her like a treasure, hands disproportionately big against her back. 

Louis grins. Doris grins back, toothless and wide and utterly disarming. Their conversation goes something like this: 

"Hi! You're a clever little thing, aren't you?" 

"Bloo." 

"Doris is a very pretty name." 

"Owee!" 

"That's right, you're Doris! I'm Louis."

"Duuum." 

Harry has to sit down at some point, feeling bubbly and excited at the sight of Louis and babies. Lottie leans against the table right in front of him with Ernest in her arms; he's just as lovely and baby-soft as his sister, downy hair and a wide-open mouth as he stares at Doris having her nose booped by someone he doesn't know. 

Harry turns to face Lottie when he feels her eyes on him. She's petting the baby on the head, but her eyes are suspicious on Harry's face. They're blue, and Harry can definitely see a resemblance. 

"Who are you, then?" she asks, brisk. Across the table, Jay coughs, and Fizzy leans over Louis to fix Harry with a stare. The twins both prop their chins up on their hands, expectant.

"Uh," Harry says, unsettled. He's not sure he's ever had so many inquiring female gazes on him at once; it makes the back of his neck itch with embarrassment. 

Louis comes to his rescue. "Leave him alone," he says good-naturedly, smiling all the while, letting go of Doris with one hand to stroke Harry's wrist, deliberately slow, gentle.

"I'm just, uh. Flustered," Harry says, abandoning his brain to mouth filter. "Sorry." 

Lottie giggles. "What's your name?" 

"Harry, uh. Harry Styles. I'm Louis's…" he trails off. This is absolutely Louis's to tell; Harry has no idea what his family does and doesn't know, what he wants them to know. 

"Oh for God's sake," Louis says to Lottie, then turns to Harry and grins at him sunnily. He looks so much more carefree than he did standing outside, or even hugging his sisters in the hall; like something has slotted into place. The late morning sun paints him brilliant and golden. "Harry's my boyfriend." 

Harry swears Fizzy mutters _I knew it_ under her breath, but he doesn't get to ask what she means. Daisy jumps up in her chair in outrage. 

" _Mum_ , why can Louis have a boyfriend and I can't?" 

Harry bites down on his lip to stifle his smile, and Louis threads their fingers together tight. 

"You're ten, Dais," Fizzy tells her as she grins at her brother. 

Harry glances worriedly at Jay. She's silent, and her expression gives nothing up. 

"Hey," Lottie pokes him in the knee. "D'you want to hold him?" 

"Me?" Harry blinks, startled. Ernest looks at him as shrewdly as a baby can, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. 

She rolls her eyes and plops him down in Harry's lap. The baby immediately latches on to Harry's shirt, warm, and sticks its finger in his eye. Harry melts. He pushes his chair closer to Louis's, letting the babies babble together. Ernest takes a vivid interest in Louis's stubble, squeaking when it prickles his fingers, and Doris can't stop touching Harry's lips. 

He's perfectly aware of what they must look like at the moment, and it makes him so happy he could burst with it. Louis comes alive around his siblings, but especially the babies, watching them with an avid fascination and pointing every one of their movements out to Harry even though he's right here to see them. He's bright and wonderful, burning with a new kind of fire. 

Phoebe, bored, suggests they move to the living room where the toys are. Harry clutches Ernest to him, protective, following the haphazard line of girls. They leave Jay in the kitchen, unthinkingly, and she doesn't come out and join them for a long while. 

It's after the babies are tucked away for their afternoon naps, taken away by Jay with sticky kisses to the entirety of Louis's face, that the mood falls again. The girls pile around Louis on the sofa, crowding into his space. Harry sits in an armchair watching them, giving them space, and Louis glances at him gratefully every few seconds, in-between the hushed conversations he's leading. He looks loved, the way he does when they're all at home sitting on a single chair watching romantic comedies. The way he should be. 

Jay breaks the tense silence only to bring more tension in the room. She walks in and perches on the arm of the sofa, looking at her children with a small frown on her face. She looks older, somehow, and miles removed from the woman who met them by the door. 

"Maybe you should go," she says, even as her voice wobbles. Louis doesn't look surprised, just sorry as he shushes his sisters, promises them that he'll come see them as soon as he can in a low voice. 

"Can we come visit you?" Phoebe asks. She's already attached again, preening under Louis's attention, and it seems too cruel to make her say goodbye now. 

"If you want," Louis says, trying to sound reassuring and resolutely not looking at his mother. "You're always welcome, Bug." 

And, as surreal as it seems, that's that. Harry can't reconcile the Jay who'd cried and apologised to her son with the one who's all but throwing them out with scared eyes.

"I'll come see them," Louis says when he's got his shoes back on, Harry's jumper thrown over his hunched shoulders. 

"I know you will, baby. I'll look forward to it." She's looking at them both with a plea in her eyes, like she's willing them to understand something that's lost on Harry. 

Not so on Louis, it seems. He steps closer, small, and leans up to press a kiss to her cheek. "It's okay," he whispers, and then he's turning away and curling into Harry's side. He needs him, and Harry thinks he needs to get away, too. It's a little too much, a bona fide rollercoaster, opening a wound that had been poorly healed for years. 

It seems like Louis has said his last words, and it's up to Harry to handle the goodbye. It's simple, really; he shakes Jay's hand, tells her thank you, and follows Louis out onto the front step. He watches her when she's closing the door behind them, spots the second of hesitation; he doesn't do it consciously, it's more protective instinct than anything. He lets his eyes flare gold, just a second, and turns away with a rueful smile. 

They get in the car, and Harry manages to drive them three streets away before Louis starts crying. Harry holds him, then, parking half on the sidewalk and pulling Louis to him over the console, until they're curled into each other in the driver's seat. 

He whispers nonsense into Louis's hair and holds him until the sky turns pale above the red roofs of the neighbourhood. 

"I'm fine," is the first thing Louis says, a half hour after he's calmed down. "I'm happy, actually, it's just. It's a lot. I don't know how I feel." 

"That's okay," Harry says immediately. "It's okay. You're golden. You've got so much time to figure out how you feel." 

Silence. "Thank you, for all this," Louis whispers.

"Nothing to thank me for, Lou." 

They hold hands on the way back, fingers entwined over the stick shift. Louis curls up in the seat with a content smile, face dry. The evening sun slanting in through the windscreen lights him up.

The lads call when they're most of the way down the M6. 

"How'd it go?" Niall demands, yelling the loudest out of them all, and through everything Harry is feeling, this indiscernible happiness inflates in his chest like a balloon. Louis grins at him softly from the passenger seat, holding the phone between them. 

" _Well_ ," he says, voice lilting. 

Zayn groans on the other end. "Fuck off with the enigmatic bullshit, _tell us_."

Louis laughs as they ride towards the sunset. 

"I'm good, lads," he says, beaming at Harry, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. "I'm just fine." 

_I love you_ , Harry mouths at him. Painted golden and burning bright in the sunlight, Louis smiles back at him with red eyes. 

They're just fine.

*

_Stay a while now  
Undress your colours  
They're like no others I've ever seen  
I could get used to your company  
Step inside_

_~fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the research i did for this fic was incredible. i watched some very educational badger videos and learned how to make spun glass swans, among other things. 
> 
> if you're interested in my personal visuals of what they look like as wolves, i've (badly) thrown some things together in photoshop (spoliers!): [harry](http://i.imgur.com/jJ1YC3Y.jpg), [louis](http://i.imgur.com/JoBfjGo.jpg), [liam](http://i.imgur.com/BRIInlx.jpg), [zayn](http://i.imgur.com/Y2Al2wY.jpg)
> 
> also, if you've gotten all the way here, i'd very much like to thank you for reading. and if you'd like to come and chat, i'm always around on [tumblr](http://hattalove.tumblr.com/post/97309138204/amaryllis-harry-louis-146-800-words-where).


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